Night and Day
by Andraiyel
Summary: Tokio Hotel. Bill Kaulitz x Tom Kaulitz, Alternate Universe, horror, angst, minor character death, this means neither Bill or Tom die!, twincest-unrelated, etc. Summary inside.
1. Going Home

SUMMARY: _Meaning to just relax for a few days, Bill invited his friend Andreas back to his family's farm out in the open countryside for the winter holiday. And it starts out just this way; playful arguing with his younger brothers, filling his parents in on school life thus far, and even a bit of drinking afterwords with Andreas to celebrate how far they've come and where they still aim to go._

_But the serenity that surrounds the large farm is shattered as night falls._

_When everything that Bill has ever known is brutally ripped away from him and then he himself is taken away, when will the nightmare end and the day finally break?_

A/N: Okay, I know that those of you who are subscribed to me are probably gathering your guns and other various weapons at the moment, because, yes, this is another fanfiction. And it also has nothing to do with any of my other previous fandoms .

Anyways, those of you that are here expecting an update for My Dad Has A Boyfriend! or one of those other ones, please be patient. It is extremely difficult for me to write those ones right now. Sorry, it is hard to explain...

On another note, here is my new fanfic in a completely different fandom. I will list the warnings as follows:

Rated: M  
Categories: Slash  
Characters: Andreas, Bill Kaulitz, Bushido, Georg Listing, Gordon Trumper, Gustav Schafer, Original Male Characters, Simone Trumper, Tom Kaulitz  
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Horror, Suspense, Twincest - Not Related- This means it is in an alternate universe where they are not related to each other  
Main Pairing: Tom/Bill  
Side Pairing: Bill/Bushido  
Warnings: Blood, Gore, Humiliation, Minor Character Death, Non-Con/Rape, Violence  
This is a Tokio Hotel fanfiction

Okay, so here we go...

* * *

The large textbook was slammed shut with a loud clap that echoed throughout the classroom.

"Okay, class dismissed!" the professor boomed over the loud roar of the students; everyone was jumping up from their seats, the chairs scraping deafeningly against the green linoleum floors as they all clamored for the door.

"Just remember, have a safe holiday! Classes resume on January 21st exactly!"

No one really heard him, everyone too excited as they rushed into the hallways, joining the other students who were streaming from the various other classrooms that made up the lecture halls on campus. They all burst from the lecture halls in floods, all on their way towards their respective dorms to pack up and leave as fast as humanly possible. Winter break was finally upon them and everyone, even the professors, saw it as a well deserved break from learning, homework, and all of that other jazz that went along with attending a university.

One student in particular was especially looking forward to the impending holidays. Chocolate brown eyes zeroed in on bleach blonde hair as the student aforementioned surged forward through the crowd of other buzzing students to get to his intended target. Reaching forward, he swiped his manicured hand at the blonde boy's arm.

"Hey, Andreas!"

The bleach blonde spun around at the sound of his own name being called to see a breathless black haired boy a little ways behind him, still trying to get through the rush of people.

"Hey Bill," Andreas laughed, grabbing the other boy's arm and dragging him to the side of the hallway where other people were idly standing. It was funny that, even after more than two years, Bill still could not work his way through the crowded passage ways of their university.

Bill flipped his long black hair back out of his face. "So, I meant to ask you before, but do you want to come home with me for the holidays?"

"That came out of nowhere."

"Yeah, I know. I forgot to ask you earlier. I only remembered now, because my mom called me this morning and reminded me," Bill admitted a bit sheepishly.

"Yeah, well I can't. I have plans," Andreas answered nonchalantly.

"Bullshit, no you don't." Bill punched him playfully in the shoulder, snickering at the thought of the blonde boy actually having plans for the break.

"You caught my bluff. Way to make me feel like I'm wanted," he sighed, pretending to be hurt.

The black haired boy rolled his chocolate brown eyes sky high. "Whatever. Do you want to come or not?"

"Hmm," Andreas hummed thoughtfully, pretending to use his hand to stroke an invisible beard pensively. "Well Bill, I am going to have to go and check my schedule. I may be able to squeeze you in between-"

"Shut the hell up, Andreas. You already said that you didn't have any plans." He glowered at the other boy and playfully hit him in the arm again. Then he turned around and crossed his lithe arms over his flat chest, beginning to walk away. "Well, if you can't make time between beer pong and masturbating, then I guess you just won't be able to have any of my mom's homemade apple pie that I already know she made, fresh just today…" he trailed off at the last part, letting those magic words hang in the air for a moment. He turned back to Andreas, smirking. "Was that mental image able to sink through the chemical spill on your head?"

Andreas was all but drooling. "Okay, I cleared up my schedule and managed to fit you in, so everything is all good now." He grabbed Bill by the arm and pulled him down the now almost empty hallway. "C'mon, you have to help me pack. I have no idea what to bring," he exclaimed, mostly to himself, as he hurried them both towards the dorms.

* * *

About an hour and a half later, Bill was staring at all the piles of clothes that were strewn across his room. It had taken about fifteen minutes to get Andreas all packed, more than half of that time simply spent just trying to wade through the jungle of a mess that was his dorm room. Bill was surprised that it had not taken longer, because they had needed to find clean clothes for him to even pack amongst all of the piles of random shit that he had everywhere. It had finally just gotten to the point where Bill told him just to pack some of his dirty clothes and they could get them washed later.

After that they had hurried over to Bill's dorm, which was in the next building over, to gather all of his things. And that was why Bill was in the position that he was in now, standing amongst the piles and piles of his own clothing. He had already kicked Andreas out of his room after the nagging and whining became too much. But maybe he had had a point, that Bill was a bit of a princess when it came to his clothing.

Nah.

Just to prove him wrong, Bill glanced down at his still empty suitcase and did the first thing that came to mind. As much as it pained him to do so, he shut his eyes tightly and randomly and quickly grabbed at whatever clothes he could reach, throwing them swiftly into his suitcase. It was necessary if he ever wanted to be finished with packing. He did not stop until he was sure that it was full; and even then, choking down a sob, he did not open his eyes until the case was securely zippered shut. Just in case he had any second thoughts.

Wiping the nonexistent sweat from his brow, he gathered up all of his makeup and toiletries and shoved them into a small bag, which he then forced into the front pocket of his suitcase.

He gave his room one last look over as he pulled his suitcase from atop his bed. Mission accomplished.

Wheeling it out of the room, Bill almost tripped over Andreas' legs that were sprawled out across the floor outside the door to his room. Andreas rolled his head back lazily to look up at the raven-haired boy, tapping his finger on his wrist impatiently where a watch should have been.

"Are you finally ready, princess?" he asked tiredly.

"Oh shut the hell up, Andreas. It didn't take me that long. In fact, I think that is the fastest I have ever packed before," he huffed, barely able to pick his suitcase up enough to get it over Andreas' legs.

Andreas lifted one bleach blonde eyebrow in amusement. "Well, then next time either I am going to pack for you or you need to start packing a week in advance, because then you might be ready by the time we need to leave."

"Yeah? Well, no one asked for your opinion, oil slick."

"Hey, hey, hey, no need to get your pretty little panties in a bunch. Plus, I took a shower this morning and if anyone is polluting the earth with their hair, it is you, mister four-cans-of-hairspray," he retorted, making motions of spraying the air with an aerosol can with his hand.

"Whatever, let's just go." Bill rolled his eyes as he rolled his bag to the emergency exit at the end of the hall where the stairs were.

* * *

They finally made it out of the dorms and threw their bags in the back of Bill's black Audi.

"I'll drive first and then you can drive second, okay?" Bill called to Andreas, jumping in the front seat and starting the engine.

"Fine with me, let's just get outta here," he replied, sliding into the passenger seat and immediately reclining it back to a comfortable position.

Picking up an average speed, they drove off campus in a matter of minutes, where Bill turned onto the highway and pressed the gas pedal almost all the way to the floor. It did not really matter how fast he went, because it was still an extremely lengthy drive to get to his home.

He sighed as he watched the pavement get eaten up by the tires of his car, Andreas' soft snores already audible from the seat beside him.

It was going to be a very long night before they got there.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are appreciated


	2. Dusk

Andreas jolted to alertness as he felt the car lurch forward slightly as they hit the gravel road that was connected to the asphalt of the paved road. He glanced around him as he shook his head, clearing away the fog that had settled over his brain in the past few hours. After having driven so long staring at the same scenery, it was easy to slip into a driving trance, which is exactly what he had done.

Blinking again to make sure he was fully awake, which he should have been anyways, because he was driving, he squinted his eyes and peered far down the gravel road to see if he could spot the farmhouse in the distance. It wasn't much, but he caught a glimpse of a black peaked roof farther along the path. They were finally there.

Glancing over at the opposite side of the car, he took one hand off the wheel and used it to nudge Bill, who was stretched across the passenger seat beside him dozing lightly.

"Bill, we're here. Get up," he said softly, not wanting to frighten the other boy by raising his voice.

The black-haired boy swatted his hand away and turned over in the seat, mumbling, "Just 'nother figh minutes mami, end I swear I'll go ta gym class fer the 'ntire weeeuhk…" He yawned at the end of that, making his mumbling that much more incoherent, and just went back to sleep.

Okay, so maybe Bill was more soundly asleep than Andreas had originally thought.

Using his knees to keep the wheel steady, Andreas shook Bill roughly with both hands and yelled, "Hey, BILL! Wake up!"

"Wha-! Where's the fi- THWAP!" Bill leapt up a good five inches from his seat in surprise, his brown eyes wide. His eyes quickly narrowed into slits, though, as his hands shot up to caress his wounded head, which had smacked into the roof of the car from his tremendous chair leap. The black-haired boy mewled in agitation more so than pain as he directed his narrowed gaze towards Andreas, who was trying unsuccessfully to stifle the chuckles that were bubbling out of his mouth.

Andreas coughed lowly under Bill's uncomfortable gaze and gestured widely to their surroundings. He finally let go of the glare and looked around for himself, wondering what the hell Andreas was pointing to.

Squinting slightly, he was just barely able to pick out his house coming towards them fast amongst the thick clusters of trees and cornfields. "Hey! We're here!" he exclaimed in a bit of a shocked tone. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was only half past four in the afternoon, which meant that they had only been in the car for about ten hours, having stopped fairly early (at least by the standards of two college-aged boys) last night at one of Andreas' friend's house and then getting a late start today.

Bill gave Andreas a congratulatory pat on the back and added cheekily, "I'm surprised we made it here so quickly. I mean, I called my mom and told her we would be here in time for dinner, but with you driving I thought I was lying to her."

Andreas shot him a burning look as they started to close in on the Trümper property. "Just because I drive at the speed limit doesn't mean I'm going slow! It just means that I want to live to see twenty-two," he replied heatedly.

The black-haired man held his hands up in mock surrender. "Sure, whatever you say," he said defensively, muttering, "Speed limit Susie," under his breath quickly.

The crunching of gravel beneath the tires of Bill's car disappeared suddenly as they pulled onto the paved driveway of his family's home. The grandiose house loomed somewhat menacingly over Bill's black Audi as they coasted up the drive.

"Did your house get bigger since the last time?" Andreas asked, leaning over the wheel to look up to the second floor.

Bill, too, was staring up at his house curiously, inspecting it the best that he could from the car. "Dude, I don't even know…" he trailed.

They pulled up behind his father, Gordon's, car and parked.

"They're here," the first voice whispered lowly, careful to not attract any unwanted attention.

"You're prepared, right?" the other voice asked, the person it belonged to crouching down on his haunches next to the other.

"Quite," the first agreed, eyeing the black car from their concealed position behind the large, lush bush.

"Hey, Andiiii?" Bill whined, wrapping his hand around the door handle, but not yet pushing the door open.

Andreas rolled his eyes and looked over at the pathetically pleading look that adorned Bill's pretty face.

The black haired boy pushed out his lower lip and opened his brown eyes as wide as they would go, trying to pull off the puppy dog look as he asked, almost pleaded, "Can you take my suitcase up the stairs for me? I think I packed it too heavily and I don't want to have to carry it…" He eyed the trunk of the car through the rear windshield.

They slowed their breathing simultaneously as they both readied themselves, clenching their fists and spreading their legs wide so that they could pounce at a moments notice.

The first one's eyes narrowed dangerously as he watched and noted the small movements that occurred behind the tinted glass of the car.

The second one inched ever so much closer to the edge of the space of concealment that the bush provided. He would be the first to make the primary and critical move. If their plan were to commence properly, his movements would need to be concise and swift. There was no room for mistakes. They had been planning this for far too long.

"Pfft, fuck that!" Andreas snorted, hopping out of the car before Bill could even protest. Puppy dog face or not, there was no way in hell he was going to lug the diva's suitcase up all those stairs that he knew were in the house. Bill was ridiculous to think that he would even consider it.

"C'mon, Andi!" Bill squawked, but his cries were immediately muffled, almost silenced, when Andreas slammed the car door shut.

"Not gonna happen, Bill!" he yelled.

Bill crossed his arms over his chest in a huff, but quickly uncrossed them when he realized he still needed to get out of the car. Blowing a wayward piece of hair out of his eyes impatiently, he pushed the door open and stepped out in a fluid motion of his long, graceful legs.

Right as he shut the car door, though, his head cocked to the side in the slightest stage of awareness and he listened intently. Andreas seemed completely oblivious to it, but the air around the two of them quickly seemed to tense in anticipation.

Maybe it was just Bill though. Or-

"Go!" the first voice hissed under his breath, his muscles tensing as he prepared for the attack.

The second person was already moving, though, having foreseen and predicted the black haired boy's movements before he could even properly make them. The second person was already leaping from the secluded area behind the bush just as Bill turned around, the first person right on his tail.

-Not.

This thought could not have come fast enough though. He heard the rustling of the immense bushes behind him only a moment too late, because just as Bill turned around to intercept attackers that he immediately knew were behind him, they were already upon him.

And boy, were they on him.

"BILL!" they yelled simultaneously, almost like a battle cry.

Bill hit the cold, hard, pre-winter ground with a large, "Oof!" as the air that had just previously filled his lungs rushed out in one large gush. They went sprawling across the grass in a pile of body parts and thick winter jackets. It felt like he had been hit by a train.

Two, brown-haired, hazel-eyed, grinning, identical trains.

Bill gasped in pain and in laughter as he tried to re-fill his deflated lungs, the two twins still lying atop him in a neat pile, both laughing like loons. His brown eyes watered as he tried to push the two twins off of him so that he could breathe again.

"Carsten… Hasan…Get-off!" he rasped thickly, muscling the two giggling boys off of him before flopping back down on the ground again to catch his breath. "God,youtwoarehuge!" he breathed out in one quick, strung together sentence.

Andreas, throughout the whole exchange, just leaned against the car with his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for the three of them to get over their family bonding moment. Or at least for Bill to stop hyperventilating enough that he could stand up and walk again. He was definitely glad that he had not been the intended target of the two twin terrors.

Just as he was thinking this, the two aforementioned twins were already up and turned on him, turning to each other in silent confirmation and then looking back at him with a glint in their eyes.

"Andi came too!" they cried, rushing up to hug him as well, more jumping at him than hugging.

Andreas, pressed up against the car, struggled to push them off, just as Bill had earlier. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here too. Now get off, you little monsters," he grunted.

They quickly detached themselves from the blonde and turned their focus back on their older brother, who was still lying on the ground, spread eagle as he stared up at the nondescript, gray sky. They ran over to him and began tugging at Bill, one arm for the each of them.

"C'mon, Bill! Get your-"

"-ass up so we can grab some-uh those cakes mom's been makin'," Hasan finished for his brother, yanking at Bill's arm again.

Carsten dropped Bill's arm back to the ground and shot a glare at Hasan. "How many times do I have to tell you, don't finish my sentences! And you're not supposed to swear, either, stupid!" he griped.

Hasan let go of Bill's arm as well and hooked his thumb in one of the belt loops of his baggy jeans. "Yeah, well I dun' see ya about ta do anythin' 'bout it," he readily countered, stepping up closer to his brother like he was sizing him up.

Andreas finally stepped in while Bill got up from the ground and brushed the dead leaves and dirt from his clothes. He clapped both twins on the back and grinned, "So, what were you saying about your mom making cakes?"

* * *

Simone, who had been listening to and watching the commotion outside from the kitchen window, was already by the front door when her two youngest children burst in, lugging along Bill's very much over-packed suitcase, as Andreas and Bill followed suit.

"Boys!" she exclaimed ecstatically as she ushered them both towards her so that she could hug them. She held them both back at an arms length after she was done smothering them so that she could look them over. "Andreas, we haven't seen you in so long! Look at how much you've grown!" she gushed, giving him another hug.

He hugged her back as well, just as warmly. She had always been like a second mother to him, ever since he and Bill were kids, and the exchange was not at all awkward as it might have been for someone who did not know the overly affectionate and motherly woman. "Yeah, it's been, what? Two years? Yeah, 'cause that's when my parents moved away, right, Bill?"

Bill didn't have the chance to respond before Simone exclaimed, "Oh, that's far too long! You need to come over here more often." Then she turned her attentions to her own son. "And you, " she started, pulling him into another back-breaking hug, "need to visit more as well. Or at least call! I know that all of you college kids have phones, especially since I still pay for yours every couple of months," she scolded him.

Bill flushed slightly as he pulled out of her hug. "Yeah, I know, mom," he muttered, "It's what you keep telling me."

"Then why don't you do it?" she asked, but more rhetorically than actually, because she knew it was basically impossible to get her eldest son to call anymore than he already did, which was frequently enough, actually. She was mostly just teasing him, as any good mother should.

She shooed Hasan and Carsten, who were still standing there looking up at their mother pleadingly (because they still wanted to have a cake), away towards the kitchen as she stood back and appraised them both again. "Well, I wasn't expecting you two for another hour or so, so dinner's not quite done yet," she admitted. "I am surprised that you made it here so fast."

"Yeah, you and me both," Bill muttered good-naturedly, shooting a teasing grin in Andreas' direction. Andreas just flipped him the bird as soon as Simone wasn't looking. Bill stuck his tongue out in return.

Simone ignored the exchange and settled her hands on her hips. "Well, boys," she looked up the stairs as a silent gesture of what she was about to say, "take your things upstairs and I'll get started on dinner. Andreas, the guest room next's to Bill's room is set up for you, so you know what to do," she finished with a smile before turning away from both of them and going back to the kitchen, where they could hear her scolding the twins for eating so many of the cakes.

Bill gave the grandiose staircase a wary glance, his eyes travelling from the numerous, wooden steps back to the suitcase that was propped up against the door, so full that it could no longer stand on its own.

Stairs sucked.

He turned his brightest of smiles to Andreas, who already knew what was coming. "So, Andi-"

"No, it's not going to happen," he cut Bill off before he could even finish, grabbing his own bag and running up the stairs two at a time, giving Bill no other option other than to drag it up the steps himself.

"Ass," he called after the blonde, the corners of his mouth tugging down into a scowl.

Stairs sucked. A lot.

* * *

Bill tossed himself onto his bed, sinking into the plush sheets, and snuggled his face deep into the navy blue comforter, breathing in the scent deeply until it filled every part of him. It smelled like home.

He turned his head to the side so that he could see his room and take a better look at it than he had when he had first walked in.

Everything was the same as when he had left it when he headed off for college. Down to the T. Well, except for the messiness. His room was a bit more organized than he had left it originally, most likely by his mother while she had been passing by randomly, which was a habit of hers.

He let his eyes wander aimlessly around, flicking from one thing to the next. His poster of Nena still hung above his large, wooden desk, set off by the dark color of his walls; he had insisted on having them painted a navy blue color when he was younger, and that is exactly what his parents had done and that was the way it was now. His eyes traveled over to the full-length mirror that was leaned against the wall next to his closet door, the frame of the mirror securing many clippings of David Bowie to its reflective glass. He still liked that guy, but that, he felt, was a given.

The next thing he noticed were the many varied colored Mardi Gras necklaces that were draped on the black shade of his lamp and then even more hanging off of the random outcroppings of metal that stuck off his lamp. He rolled his eyes at the memory of how he had acquired all of those beads. What a wild time that had been. 'I'm surprised that mom didn't get rid of those…' he thought fleetingly as his eyes roved over the rest of his rather large room. His tall dresser was still pressed up against the wall in the corner of his room, devoid of anything that he would ever be caught (dead or alive) wearing, and the same stood true for his other dark colored dresser and his closet as well. Even the unsteady rumbling of his overhead fan remained unchanged after all the time away.

Bill closed his eyes and turned his head back so that he was facedown in the comforter once more. It was good to be home.

He heard footsteps in the bathroom that joined his room to the guest room and then felt the depression in his mattress as someone sat on the edge of his bed, but he did not bother turning to see who it was or to even acknowledge their presence.

After a few more minutes of silence, the person that was sitting on his bed, whom Bill already knew was Andreas, finally spoke up, "So, what do you have planned for the break?"

"Abfolutfly nuffin'," Bill spoke into the mattress, his voice being extremely muffled by the thick, down sheets. Andreas just nodded, a motion that went completely unnoticed by Bill, and lied down on his back next to the other boy.

"Sounds good to me," he finally sighed out heavily, exhausted from the long car trip.

"Nhnn," came the mumbled response.

They laid like that for a little while, Andreas' own eyes drooping shut, when suddenly there was an obnoxious bouncing on the bed and an overly loud voice yelling, "Hey! Mom says it's time for dinner!"

Instead of responding, or getting up for that matter, Bill's hand shot up and shoved the boy off the edge of the bed, where he landed with a solid thud and a cry of, "Oww! That hurt, you jerk!"

Carsten sat on the floor, rubbing his sore backside as Hasan snickered from the doorway, leaning up against the wall, trying to act cool. Carsten hopped up from the floor, shooting Hasan a piercing glare, and decided that he needed a fix for his pride more than he needed one for his aching butt.

Wrapping his arms around Bill's upper thigh, he gave a quick and powerful yank and soon Bill was on the floor with a wide eyed, shocked look on his face, a surprised squeak sneaking its way out from between his pursed lips, just as Carsten had been before. Although he was younger than Bill, he was stronger and more muscled than his thin and petite older brother was, or had ever been.

Bill rubbed his eyes tiredly with the heels of his palms, too tired to even yell at the brown-haired boy. "Okay, okay, I get it!" he moaned, pushing himself up off the ground as Andreas was doing the same thing, but off from the bed. Andreas was sniggering softly at what Carsten had just pulled; it was pretty impressive that the twelve-year old could do that to his twenty-one-year old best friend, but awesome nonetheless.

Carsten placed his hands on his hips and smirked proudly at his handiwork and was just about to turn away when Bill grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and spun him around again. He flinched unintentionally, afraid that the black haired man was going to hit him.

"When did you two get braces?" Bill asked, peering into Carsten's mouth. He grabbed the boy gently by the face and used the tip of one manicured nail to poke at one of the brackets curiously.

Carsten swatted the inquiring hand away, wiping his lips in distaste from having his brother's hand in his mouth. "Like, forever ago, duh," the brown-haired boy sneered, the metal in his mouth shimmering in the light of the hallway.

"Yeah dude, get wit' the times," Hasan, the other boy's mirror image, added, rolling his eyes from the doorway.

They both bounded off down the stairs, pushing and shoving each other the entire way, and left Andreas and Bill alone in his room.

Andreas started pushing Bill through the doorway and towards the stairs. "C'mon, we better get down there before you mom has a cow."

Hasan and Carsten had scarfed down their food so that they could wrestle in the yard before the sun set. Falling out of their seats in anticipation, Carsten had run upstairs to get something while his twin waited patiently for him at the foot of the stairs.

Bill watched in amusement the way that they revolved around each other and how they flitted from one place to the next with what seemed to be minimal effort on their parts.

He rested his head in his hand as he swirled the contents of his plate with his fork and turned his attention back to the table. "Where the hell do they get all that energy?" he asked, directing the question to his parents.

His father, who had just gotten home mere moments ago from work, sat at the table with his plate and said, "We asked ourselves the same exact thing about you when you were younger."

"Yeah, but I was never like that," he scoffed, straightening himself in his chair.

Andreas coughed softly and covered his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh, and Gordon raised his eyebrow questioningly at him. Simone input, "No, to say you were like those two would be an understatement, honey. We," by we, she probably meant anyone who had ever met Bill, "still don't know where you get it." She smiled fondly at the memories of her rambunctious little Bill and all of the shenanigans that he got himself into. Well, some of those memories were fond, others, not so much.

He scowled and slumped over in his chair again, pinching a pea in between his thumb and forefinger and popping it into his mouth.

"Yo, g-skillet, let's take this party to the outdoors!" Hasan shouted at his brother from the bottom of the stairs.

Bill rubbed his temples and turned to look at his mother in bewilderment. "And when did he start talking like that? And why?" he asked exasperatedly. "He's been doing it since we got here."

Simone shrugged, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of steak. Swallowing, she said, "It is something that all the kids these days are doing, he just wants to fit in. You know, it is just the latest fad, he'll get over it eventually."

From outside they could hear Hasan yelling, "I'ma pop a cap in yo ass if ya don't give me that damn ball!" at his brother as they chased each other around the yard.

Bill quirked an eyebrow in curious amusement. "No one I know talks like that," he said snootily, pushing his vegetables underneath the fluffy white pile of mashed potatoes that was on his plate distractedly with his fork. "He knows what color he is, right?"

Simone choked slightly on her food and slapped Bill on the arm. "Don't talk like that!" she admonished, a horrified look crossing over her face.

Gordon, on the other hand, was chuckling away at this. "Yeah, well it is like you and your leather and makeup, Bill" he guffawed, giving him an all-knowing look.

Bill gaped at his father; the shock quickly turning into frustration as he retorted sharply, "This," he paused briefly to gesture at his clothing, "is high fashion. There is nothing wrong or abnormal about it," he finished with a harrumph and a playful, yet still piercing glare. He shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and then crossed his arms over his chest as he turned away from them childishly.

Andreas pushed his plate away from his and let a contented sigh escape his lips. "Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Trümper, it was great," he grinned, leaning back in his chair and puffing out his stomach so he could pat it.

Simone, standing up, took his plate and her own, grabbing Bill's as well, because he had long since stopped eating and was just playing with his food now. "Don't worry about it, Andreas, you know you're welcome here any time." She had gotten passed trying to get him to call her Simone, since the concept never seemed to stick with him and had just deemed it a lost cause. "Now, who wants dessert?"

* * *

"You're so stupid," Carsten grumbled, lying on his stomach in the grass, shredding the little green blades around him into miniscule pieces.

"I dunno whatcha talkin' 'bout,"Hasan replied, plopping down onto the hard ground beside his brother, watching him blankly as he tore up the grass. They had been running around with a football, tackling each other to gain ownership of it, as their little game dictated they must; but Hasan had thrown the ball a little too wide and it had landed somewhere in the cornfield that bordered almost all sides of their home.

Of course they had tried to go find it, they would have been stupid not to and they knew approximately where it was, from the loud rustling and snapping as it broke the stalks during its crash landing; but they still were unable to find it and would have been fools had they stayed out of sight in the cornfield for too long.

Carsten threw a handful of the grass confetti at Hasan angrily and sat up. "Dad just got us that ball, jerk! You didn't have to go and lose it! Now we'll never get it back," he spat, clenching his fists in frustration.

"'Ts not my fault, bro. I tried ta look fer it, but got no luck. Mom'll treat our lives if we go back in the fields 'nyways," he griped, brushing the specks off his clothes and trying to keep his temper in check as he mumbled under his breath lowly. He normally would have hit the other boy for pulling something like that, but it was mostly true that he had lost the ball; but it was also true that Carsten should have jumped to catch it.

"Stop talking like that!" Carsten blew up. "You are not ghetto, and you're not even cool enough to pull it off! You just sound stupid! I hate it!" He jumped up to his feet and stalked off to the house, where he slammed the sliding glass door as he went in.

Hasan let out the breath he had been slightly holding while his brother ranted at him. It was better to just not say anything and to let Carsten have his space when he got like that. 'There must be something on his mind…' he thought absently as he stood up and brushed the rest of the green snippets of grass off of him.

With Carsten, space meant a couple thousand square feet, so that basically left the entire house off limits at the moment, even if he could make himself scarce; so he started walking along the brick path that led from the back yard to the front of the house, staring down at his tennis shoes that peaked out from underneath his baggy jeans as he walked.

It wasn't long before he was down the drive and up the road, kicking at random pebbles and rocks that had made their way from the gravel road into the ditch. There was no place in particular that he was walking to, because their secret hideout and fort in the forest was in the opposite direction and everything else, for miles around, was just corn and trees.

Sighing gloomily, he finally looked up, not that there was much to look at that wasn't something he had already seen before. The sky had only managed to turn darker since Bill and Andreas had arrived, the storm clouds blowing in overhead, brewing up something nasty. A little ways down, though, there was something pulled over on the side of the road. He squinted his hazel eyes until they were just thin slits, but still could not quite make out what it was. It looked big though, like a truck, or maybe even some kind of weird tractor.

Hasan started walking a little bit more quickly towards whatever it was, even though a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind told him it was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

But he ignored this regardless and kept going, the object in the distance coming up faster now and only getting bigger with each step that he took. From where he was at now, it looked more like a truck, or maybe some kind of trailer. Either one of those was not something that he or his brother ever really saw along this road, so it was even more strange that is would be parked on it. 'Might as well check it out,' he thought, 'Just to make sure that nothing is wrong,'

He came up along the rear of what appeared to be an RV, the kind that he saw in movies or in magazines that his dad was always drooling over. It was big, but nothing about it was spectacular or noticeable, other than its size. It was a nondescript brown and beige color, the brown overlapping and swirling into the beige in various places. Its average sized, tinted windows had shades on them, all of them drawn tight so that nothing inside could be seen.

He kept walking, backing up away from it slightly so that he could get a better view of it as he went. There were compartments built into the sides of it with locks adorning each one, probably for luggage or something. Also, along the top, a big roll of canvas was attached to the RV, what looked to be one of those fold out awnings. His eyes traveled all over the vehicle, noting everything about it that there was to see, even the-

"Like what ya see?" came a gruff voice from just behind him.

Hasan probably jumped about a foot in the air in surprise, spinning around quickly to see a large man wiping his hands slowly with a ratty, blue rag. His hazel eyes widened significantly as he looked the man up and down. He was big.

"Uh, y-y-yeah, mister," he stuttered, wringing his hands together nervously as he backed away from the man slowly.

The man seemed to ignore the boy's uneasiness as he took a step back to look at what was obviously his RV. "Yeah, she's a beaut, isn't she?" he asked, although there was really no question in his voice.

"S-sure is." He was so nervous that he even forgot to keep up with his gangster façade, which, in the situation, was probably a good thing.

The man rubbed his hand over his shaved head as he eyed the slightly shaking boy. "What'cha doin' here, kid?"

Hasan clenched his hands into loose fists and pushed the stutter out of his voice as he said, "Nothing, I was just walking. Why are you just parked on the side of the road?"

The man held up the blue rag that he had been using to wipe his hands, the cloth stained with blotches of dark grease and oil, before he stuffed it into one of the pockets of his equally stained and dirtied jeans. "Repairs that couldn't wait to be taken care of."

"Oh." Hasan nudged at a couple of rocks with the toe of his sneaker distractedly. He leaned to the side slightly, but did not see the front end of the RV open or any tools lying about that would suggest that the man really had been doing repairs; but maybe he was just about to head out when he had walked up. Yeah, that was probably it. "So…' he trailed off, not really sure what to say. He really wasn't supposed to talk to strangers anyways, but he was already here and had already been talking, so it really couldn't have mattered much at this point.

"So…?" the man asked, an amused smirk working its way onto his scruffy, prickly-looking face.

"Um, where are you traveling to?"

The man scratched at the stubble on his face thoughtfully. "You know what? I don't really know myself. Just travelin' I guess."

"You can do that? What about work? Do you have a job?" They talked like this for a while, awkwardly filling the silence with Hasan asking whatever questions that came into his mind and the man answering them fluidly.

It wasn't until the man looked up and saw the sky darkening further with the sunset that he finally said, "I think I gotta be headin' off, kid."

"Aww, why?"

"It's gettin' dark. Your ma's probably worryin' about ya anyways."

Hasan's face dropped slightly as he realized that this was true. "Yeah, probably," he mumbled dismally.

The man started walking towards the RV door. "Well, why don't you scoot yourself along, Hasan?" He immediately froze mid-step as the kid's name slipped past his lips.

Shit.

The kid had never openly told him his name throughout the entire conversation.

He regained his composure quickly though, so as to make it look like nothing at all had even happened, and before he even knew it, he was already in the RV, buckling his belt and starting the engine. He glanced quickly into the side view mirror to see if there had been any reaction at all, but there was nothing, the boy was already up the road and walking back to his house.

Hasan never even noticed that the stranger had called him by his name.

* * *

He clenched the wheel rigidly, to the point where the skin of his hands was stretched tightly over his whitening knuckles. How could he have been so stupid! To call the boy by his name, that was just asking for trouble!

But it seemed as though he had not noticed. Either that or it did not faze him; cause him enough worry to say anything about it. That was a good sign.

He ground his teeth together in frustration anyways. It was too late to do anything about it now anyways; it was best to just let it go.

So he drove on, and just kept driving until the farmhouse amongst the corn was nothing but a fleeting memory.

For the moment, at least.

"I'm going to bed, I'm exhausted."

Bill looked up from the book he was reading and nodded, his eyes immediately traveling back to the words on the page.

Andreas yawned. "'Kay, g'night then." He hopped up from his position on the carpeted floor and brushed his blonde hair out of his face, shuffling tiredly out of the office and to his bedroom.

"Night," Bill mumbled in response, giving his friend a clipped wave of the hand absently as he continued to read. He was having enough trouble keeping his eyes open and he really wanted to just finish the chapter before he went to sleep.

Just a bit more…

* * *

Andreas all but bowled Hasan over on his way to the stairs. Andreas gripped his shoulders quickly to keep them both from falling over, both boys wobbling on their feet for a few moments from walking into each other.

The little brunette, who was just coming in from outside, even though the sun had set a while ago, quickly muttered his apologies and brushed the blonde's hands off of him, heading for the stairs before he was stopped, Andreas grabbing him by the shoulders again.

"Hey, your mom was looking for you, you were out for a while and I think she's worried."

Hasan's brown eyebrows furrowed together as he brushed Andreas' hand off him again. "I'll talk to her tomorrow, I'm tired now," he replied a bit icily, feigning a yawn to make his exhaustion more believable, before he ran up the stairs and to his room.

"Whatever, kid," the blonde muttered, trudging up the stairs towards his own room. Hell if he was going to deal with him now, there was a bed calling his name, and boy was it tantalizing.

* * *

A rusty, old, faded orange pick-up truck roared up the gravel road, soaring just above the rocky gravel with its headlights turned off. It picked up more speed as it went, eating up the gravel, rocks flying in all directions out from beneath its worn, rubber tires.

The muffler on this old beater was all but shot, making the roaring and snarling of its engine audible for yards in all directions. Really the only thing it was good for now was scaring off small children and pulling trailers. But it was good for something, so it had yet to be sent to the old scrap metal yard.

The beast of a vehicle slowed substantially as it reached within a mile of its intended destination, the roaring of the engine retracting to a mere growl as the needle on the speedometer inched back towards zero.

The growling soon turned into a low purr, almost completely inaudible as the muffler was able to take care of at least that much, which made the vehicle perfect for the job at hand.

The truck, purring softly like a contented tiger, inched along the road at a speed that the truck was never meant to be driven at; but it was necessary to keep the noise at a minimal level.

No one could know that the beast was closing in.

* * *

Gordon walked through the house, just about finished with his nightly rounds. He checked the lock on the back door and stopped in the office at the back of the house when he saw that there was still a light on in there.

Sound asleep on the armchair in the corner of the room was Bill, his arm hanging limply over one of the sides, a book lying lopsidedly on the floor beside the chair. He looked so serene, with his legs curled up underneath him and his painted eyelids fluttering every so often as he dreamed. It was cute, even he would admit that.

Gordon sighed softly and tiptoed into the room as quietly as he could, so as to not disturb his sleeping son. Bill may have been cute when he was sleeping, but when someone woke him up he was like an angered bear. Gently, he took Bill's arm and folded it into his lap and then bent over and picked up the book, placing it softly on the end table that stood next to the chair.

Giving the rest of the room a brisk once over, he deemed everything else to be in proper order. He carefully pulled the chain for the lamp down so that the light would go out and then, in a low voice, murmured, "Sleep well, Bill. I'll see you in the morning."

Gordon quickly and soundlessly made his way out of the darkened room and went upstairs to join everyone else in slumber.

* * *

His breath fanned out before him in smoky white tendrils. It was cold outside, but he did not mind. He would be sweating from exertion soon enough.

From where he sat he could see most all angles of the house. He had scouted the rest of the perimeter and deemed this to be the best place, so this is where he squatted to wait. It was only a matter of time...

One by one he watched as the lights in the house went out, casting darkness upon the already black-shrouded land surrounding the house, and of course the house itself. It was now completely black all around him, save for the scant light set off by the moon.

Perfect.


	3. Nightfall

A/N: Hello there, this is just a quick, short-ish update because I needed to break this original chapter into pieces for it was excessively long... So here ya go X3

* * *

"Okay, ladies and gents, let's get this party started," he muttered to himself grimly, bringing his rough, calloused hands together in a soft clap and rubbing them together in morbid anticipation. It was finally time to get rolling.

Reaching up, he adjusted the zoom on his night vision goggles and did a quick sweep of the house once more before slipping them off of his head and setting them on the thick tree branch beside him. He flicked open the buttons on one of the pockets on his pants and dug out a pair of tight, leather gloves, sliding them, in a quick series of fluid motions, over his hands, pulling them tight once he reached the wrist. He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, hoping to adjust his vision to the scant light quickly so he could commence. There was no point in going on if he could not even see to act.

Sighing, his breath fogging out in front of him in a smoky, white cloud, he checked his belt for the items that he needed, already knowing that they were all there, but checking again regardless. It would have left him in a horrendous situation if he had gone ahead without something, and that was simply not acceptable. Everything had to be kept perfect; it was what his own standards called for after all. Not only that, though, but the truck was further up the road, within viewing distance from there, yes, but a decent walk nonetheless. He would rather not have to make it again, if he could help it.

Check, check, check, and check again, everything that he needed was on his person, for the most part. The items that he would need later were placed around the house itself, too large for him to have been bothered to carry around with him.

He closed his brown eyes after having checked everything, relishing in the cold air around him and the prospect of what was awaiting him that night. He had been waiting weeks for this moment, the anxiety slowing building until he was ready to burst! His muscles, even now, were tense with anticipation, his whole body just ready to snap into action.

But that was what he wanted the least, for his excitement would lead to fatal error and that was not a risk that he could take. It had been a while since the last time, god, it had been a while, but he was loathe to mess things up by acting like an overexcited fool and run head on in without thinking first.

However, he would not kill his enthusiasm completely, with the rush of adrenaline and that tantalizing fear that came along with it as well, because that was the best part.

Besides the job itself, that is.

He brushed the goggles off of the branch beside him, listening as they hit the frosty grass below with a soft thud. It was no concern of his whether they broke or not, they were a dime a dozen and he could get them by the crate-full if he needed to. The man then braced his hands on the branch on either side of himself and pushed off, his thick-soled boots hitting the hard-packed earth and the vibrations of the impact running up his legs in a delicious way.

He could not see much now, from his position on the ground, but his eyes had finally adjusted to the dark of the night and he was ready to rumble, no longer in need of the goggles he had brought with him. He bent over and plucked them up from the ground be the strap, taking them in both gloved hands and snapping the goggles in half as if they were nothing. There was no need to keep them if he was never going to use them again.

Shoving the pieces into his pocket, he proceeded to the house, bypassing the cornfield in between and heading straight for the yard, invisible in the darkness of the night.

This was going to be too easy, really.

* * *

Everything was completely silent inside the confines of the house, save for the soft buzzing of the refrigerator and Gordon's snores emanating from the master bedroom; but these sounds were a given, taken for granted for the lulling qualities that they possessed, giving the house a feeling of safety that was much overlooked by the inhabitants.

The house was cocooned in a bubble of electricity, a soft and almost unnoticeable buzzing of power that possessed the house night and day; heard primarily in the silence of the night, it lent to the buzzing that reverberated inside the refrigerator, the soothing whoosh of warm air as it was pushed through the vents by the heater, and to all the other sounds that existed in the house late at night when no one was conscious; except for the snoring, of course.

Yet no one seemed to take notice as all of these reassuring sounds died out, the electrified bubble that surrounded the house popping in an instant, taking with it all of the sounds attributed with a sleeping house; but it did not only take away the sounds, it took everything.

If anyone had chanced on being awake, they might have noticed the little green numbers of all the digital clocks blink once and then disappear completely, the red lights on the cable box fading to a deep orange, a dark, muddy yellow, and then finally to the powered down color of black, or even the whoosh of air let off by the desktop computer as it was forcefully shut off, the power it fed off of having been taken away.

However, no one was awake to notice these things, the darkening of bedrooms as alarm clocks switched off or as night-lights faded to black. No one noticed the deep, unsettling quiet that overtook the normal lulling buzz that encased their home; all that was left were the creaks and groans of the house as it settled.

Now perhaps the inhabitants noticed this dark, sudden change subconsciously; Andreas rolling over in his bed, yet not waking even the slightest, Simone's brow furrowing deeply in her sleep, and Hasan mumbling something incoherent as he slept in the bed across from Carsten; but it all could have been dreaming, their dreams affecting them in their unconscious state of mind.

Perhaps.

* * *

He set the wire cutters back where he had retrieved them from the rear of the house along with a few of the other items he had brought. It had taken next to no time to cut the power lines to the house, because he had already studied the plans and layouts of the house, so he knew where everything was located. It made his life so much easier when he knew where everything was and that way there were no surprises.

He stood a few steps away from the house, observing it with detached interest. From the back of the house he could see the sliding glass door that he knew led into the kitchen, a few various windows, one of which was, based on position and height, over the kitchen sink and too small for him to fit through, and then the garage.

The garage was the first thing that caught his undivided attention, because it was such a prominent feature standing out from the house. However he quickly dismissed it as soon as he noticed that there was no outer door for the outcropping structure, other than the large, metal, mechanical door, which was not feasible if he was working for complete silence.

He turned his attention to the back door of the house, observing the glass planes of the door and, from where he stood, the inside, or at least as much as he could see. Although it was easy to enter through, it was not the most optimal entrance due to the noise that he knew most sliding doors created, thus making it immediately not an option.

However, right next to the glass doors were windows that looked into an open breakfast nook, or at least this is what the floor plans had informed him was there beyond the glass. If it was true, then that there would be his best bet- minimal furniture, large windows, and they were close to the ground as well, making for easy access. Perfect.

He strode up to the first large window, cracking his fingers through the leather gloves out of habit as he went. There were three, very large glass windows looming in front of him, each one equipped with a screen on the outside and, from what he could tell by peering in, all of them were locked on the inside. Cupping his hands around his eyes and then leaning up to the glass, he took a moment to examine the kind of lock that he was working with. It was only a simple latch lock; the kind that was turned with the thumb to keep the window from being pushed up. It was easy enough to get open, as long as he could slide something up between the two panes to get at the lock.

From on of the slots in his belt he pulled a thin, rectangular object out, flipping open the knife component to reveal a long, gleaming, steel blade that shined in the almost nonexistent moonlight. It came in handy in almost all situations, which was exactly why he carried it around.

First he used the knife to pop the screws on the screens that covered the window, opting not the cut it because of the noise that it would create. After he popped the last screw out the screen, it all but fell into his opened arms, which he then gently set to the side, leaning it softly against the house. Pausing to listen for any sounds before he began, and hearing nothing in the following silence, he wedged the blade slowly up in between the two windows where they overlapped with each other. He caught the latch on the inside and dug the blade into it before he began to slide the knife left, watching as the little thumb switch on the other side of the glass turned slowly along with his movements. About a minute more passed before a soft click resounded on the other side of the glass window, the lock having been disengaged.

Bingo.

With a grim sort of satisfaction, he slipped the knife out from between the windows once more and folded it closed with his thigh, sliding it back into the belt cinched around his waist. He pressed his fingers against the cold glass and began to ease the window up slowly and silently. All he needed was a bit of a gap so he could slip his fingers in…

An opening, the thickness of a quarter, finally started to emerge at the bottom of the window as he continued to press it upwards in its frame, careful not to relieve any of the pressure he was putting on the glass with his finger tips for fear that the window would slide to a close. Gradually the opening widened with each passing second, becoming about an inch wide, just expansive enough for him to begin pushing his hand under.

Slowly, he increased the pressure on the window in his right hand and took his left hand off, watching as the window started inching to a close as he did so. However, it was unable to close all the way before he wedged his fingers into the opening and pried the window up at a more rapid speed, within seconds the opening becoming wide enough for him to step on through; which is exactly what he did, gently guiding the window to a close as soon as his boots met with a wooden floor.

With a soft click the latch lock was engaged and a crooked, virulent grin spread across his unshaven face.

Let the game commence.

* * *

Bill stirred slightly in his sleep; his leg slipping from the chair that he had gone to sleep on. It was a wonder that he was still sleep soundly on the chair and had not awoken hours ago and headed to his own bed. But perhaps that was for the better.

At the same time as the window near the kitchen was being slowly and silently inched open, Bill's subconscious mind was playing host to dreams that were strange and outlandish, even for one like him.

When he would awaken later, he would not, for the life of him, be able to tell anyone what he had dreamt, because the dream itself would already be completely faded from his memories, not even an image left for him to recall upon. Whether or not this was a good thing, he would never have the chance to know.

In the foreign dream of his, there were dozens of people, all of whom were simply standing there doing nothing but smiling sadly towards, it seemed, him. Where 'there' was, he did not know, or at least could not tell. All he knew for sure was that it was dark and he could not move or even speak; yet the people that filled his dream were slowly, without even moving, getting closer to where he presumably was. And it was quiet, quieter than any situation he had ever known.

And then they stopped, all heads snapping their attention in another direction towards a sound that went unheard by Bill. The expressions on all the faces - children, women, and men - morphed sluggishly from a bleak sort of cheer into something more sinister, a festering rage, a crazed animosity towards an entity, some _thing_, that Bill could not even begin to comprehend or see. Something he did not even realize was there.

The funny thing about it was, the dream was more real than he could have ever fathomed.

But then it was over, the entire scene in his sleep-fogged mind turning into something much more docile, a dreamscape more akin to its true definition.

Sweet dreams, Bill.

* * *

A/N: Chapter 4 should be up relatively soon, because it is basically already written.

Review please!


	4. Midnight

A/N: Sorry about the wait!

I was trying to put the link for the layout of the house in here, but it didn't work. So if you want to see the (horribly drawn) floor plans, then go to photobucket and type "andraiyel" into the search box, and from there you can get to my account and go see them! I am the only Andraiyel, by the way, just so you all know and don't get confused X3

* * *

_"Why are you doing this?" she shrieked, grabbing the two boys to her bosom and clutching them tightly, like they would fall away if she loosened her grip even slightly._

_"Shut up, you fucking bitch," he growled, the corners of his mouth twitching up in disgust. The entire contents of his stomach roiled and churned as he watched her hold the two children. As if that would stop him. _

_Angry tears swelled at the corners of her pale eyes, threatening to spill over with each step closer that he took. "Get away from us!" she screamed furiously, but through the anger a twinge of fear broke through, cracking her facade of confidence and rage. She took a step back, still holding the boys, but her back hit the wall she knew was coming. Even though she knew it was there, when her back collided with the wall, the door a foot or two away, it still took her by surprise; her narrowed blue eyes widened and the tears, finally making good on their threat, flowed down her blanched cheeks. _

_His face was the picture of relaxation, no wrinkles marring the forehead or the corners of the eyes, just a smooth brow and clear, brown eyes. He squatted down on his haunches, the denim of his blue jeans crinkling as he did so, and rested his forearms on his thighs. Two deft fingers beckoned for the boys who were standing with the woman, their thin arms hanging at their sides as they stared blankly at each other, their eyes empty of thought, and emotion, but not of comprehension. _

_The woman shook her head frantically, long brown hair flying. "No, no, no!" she moaned, clutching the boys tighter as she felt the beginnings of movement from each. Her wide, blue eyes connected with glinting, brown ones, understanding flooding her features. "Please not this," she whispered fiercely, begging, "Anything but this!" Her voice was rising in pitch and in volume. "Please, Bushido!"_

_Bushido..._

Bushido.

Dark brown eyes refocused, losing the hazy appearance they had had before as he shook the intruding thoughts away with a quick snap of his neck. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his gloved hands, stroking his hands across the early stages of a beard. He had been correct in his assumption that there would be little to no furniture in the breakfast nook; this he noted as his hands dropped back to his sides. All that resided in the room was a table decorated in a softly checkered cloth, a fruited centerpiece set in the middle of the table atop the cotton cloth, the fluted bowl brimming with fresh strawberries, crimson-red apples, thick oranges, and faintly yellow pears. How quaint.

He glided through the small room with a quick determination and mounted the couple of steps into the rest of the house, leaving him standing in the mouth of a grand foyer. The front door of the house stood many feet in front of him and from the windows above it, a sparse amount of light shone through, glistening off of the crystalline chandelier that hung off to the side of the grand staircase, which was also just a few feet from where he stood. The house was larger than it had initially appeared from the floor plans, all of the rooms more spacious than what the original drawing showed.

He took a slow step forwards, soaking in every detail as he did so. To his left stood a dining room of sorts, a thick, mahogany table stood in the centre of the room, its wood shining proudly as it was surrounded on all sides by heavy-looking chairs of the same type, various expensive-looking wooden cabinets flanking the table along the sides of the wall, their glass door revealing shelves full of elaborately painted china pieces. Rotating his head to the right, he was faced with a room loosely furnished with a few armchairs and a lavish leather couch, all of which empty due to the hour of the night. His eyes wandered around the hallway, observing everything about the house that he could see in the inadequate lighting. It was interesting, really, because there was so much one could tell about a person from the home that they resided in.

Bushido shook his head slightly at that moment, releasing the thoughts from his head. He did not have the time to moon over the contents of the house or how it was organized and decorated, that was not what he was there for. He clenched his leather-clad hands tightly into fists and then released them, stretching his fingers as he started down the expansive entryway, heading for the stairs.

Even with thick, rubber soles, steel toes, and an overall heavy solidity to his 'work' boots and himself, his steps through the house were completely and utterly silent, like the lethal creeping of carbon monoxide. Of course this worked well in his favor, making him effective and successful in what he did.

The plush, white carpet covering the stairs formed to the soles of his boots as he slowly climbed the staircase, listening for the telltale signs of a creaky step. With each passing step, he left an imprint of his boot in the carpet of the previous steps, the weight of his thick, muscled body pressing down enough to do so. If he had not been so caught up in listening to each and every muted step that he took, it might have been entertaining to watch as the foot prints that he left slowly faded away in the self-adjusting carpet; it had momentarily amused many of the other residents of the house at least.

Even with his awake and moving presence, the house remained eerily silent, not even the soft creaks and groans of the old farmhouse ruptured the bubble of quiet that encased it. More than certainly, it would have been but an understatement to say that one would be able to hear a pin drop from anywhere in the home, the still, unmoving air inside capable of amplifying the sound way beyond its own natural sonance.

A pity that it would not last.

Bushido absently let the fingertips of his leather gloves brush against the banister in a soundless sweep as he climbed the last steps on the seemingly endless staircase, his hand closing around the swirled tip of the newel post that capped the end of the banister. He stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, taking the whole place in. "Marvelous…" he mouthed, sucking in a deep, contented breath as he reached into one of the loops on his belt and pulled out the switchblade he had utilized earlier. He flipped it open soundlessly, the blade glinting softly in the moonlight that trickled in from the picture windows above the front door. His deep brown eyes immediately zeroed in on a dark, wooden door directly in front of the staircase, shut securely against the hallway.

Hand falling away from the carved head of the newel post, he glided across the floor with the grace of a phantom, coming face to face with this first door. His leather-encased fingertips traced the outlines of the doorknob, almost caressing it in his twisted excitement. Bushido slowly wrapped his hand around the doorknob, careful not to jiggle it, and pressed his other gloved hand, knife in tow, to the polished wood. With a quick flick of his wrist, the door swung away from the frame silently on well-greased hinges.

A waft of stale air hit him in the face - old, musty, and dry. His hawk-like eyes roamed hungrily over the contents of the room – a dusty, plain dresser, a bed made with clean-cut sheets, generic white curtains hanging listlessly in front of the lone window. None of it was of any importance or remarkable in any way, and the room was void of life, like it had not been lived in for years.

Boring.

His lips spread in a thin, agitated line and he let the door stand open as he moved on. Bushido turned to his right where there was another hallway and yet another door waiting, almost beckoning, for him at the end. This door, however, was already standing open, so he would not have to trouble himself with possible squeaky hinges.

It also meant that there was probably someone waiting within.

He was stepping into the room with just a few strides from where he stood before, slipping through the doorway with purpose. The first thing he noticed was the wooden floor. Although his footsteps had been soft, he had grown accustomed to the plush carpet - that seemed to line every inch of the upper level of the house - muffling the sound of his steps. The loud creaking of the boards as his weight shifted seemed deafening in the unearthly stillness of the house. He froze, his body tensing with anticipation.

But there was nothing – no whispered calls of, "Who's there?" or the sound of bedsprings creaking as someone got up to investigate. Just the same calm to the air as before.

His eyebrows furrowed, how had he not been heard? Making sure not to shift his weight, he craned his neck to look back into the hall, straining his ears for any noise - a snore, a footstep, a yawn...a whimper. Yes, he was grateful he had not been heard, but nonetheless, the lack of response nagged at him. It was not normal. Not this late at night, not this early in the game, not ever.

Wary of his surroundings, Bushido looked down, studying the way his foot had landed on floorboards. He could not rescind the step he had already taken, nor could he simply continue on, as before, the creaking floor hindering his movements; but standing there and willing himself to weigh less or for the floor to magically be creak-less would not help either.

A step further and his foot landed on solid, soundless ground. Carefully, he lifted his back foot as slowly as he could, minimizing the resulting noise to a dull squeak, less than half of what had sounded before. He paused for a moment more after this, straining to listen again. Still nothing. Whether that was good or not, he would find out soon enough. Finally, brown eyes flickered up from the floor to the room he now stood in.

It was blue - overwhelmingly blue. That was all he could do to describe it, there were no other words for it. He ventured further inside, his eyes searching and his hands clenching and unclenching with each muted footfall.

Blue. Everything was blue - the walls, bed, curtains, rug, ceiling, everything. It was almost nauseating the way that such a simple color – enjoyable in small doses – overtook every aspect of the room he had entered.

He ignored it. What had really caught his attention was the fact that he had entered yet another vacant room. Completely empty. Again. Not unlived in, or at least not for as long as the other one, but empty regardless. Time was ticking and all he had stumbled upon was air.

A hushed growl rumbled out of his chest as his eyes narrowed in annoyance and his hand tightened rigidly on the handle of the blade, the leather of his gloves squeaking inappreciably. He retreated soundlessly back to where he had entered. Just shy of the door he had come in through was another, leading through a bathroom into what he knew to be another bedroom - this time, hopefully occupied.

He drifted through the black, windowless bathroom, carried by the sound of soft snores that emanated from the room beyond. It was like the sound of a sweet, whispering angel, beckoning him just out of sight.

His boots reached carpet again as this calling angel finally came into view in the form of one snoring lump, huddled under the thick blankets atop the bed. It was the sweetest, most satisfying angel he had ever seen.

Without so much as a rustling of clothing, Bushido was already across the long room, looming over the curled up shape. Utterly oblivious, the person beneath the sheets was making it all too easy for the man staring down at him. From beneath the covers a head of bleach-blonde hair poked out, everything below the eyebrows hidden by a mauve sheet, one arm stretching out and above the head, the hand curled into a loose fist.

Bushido peeled back the sheet slowly with his free hand, the snoring from beneath immediately becoming more audible as soon as the sheet was pulled away from the boy's face. He retracted his gloved hand as soon as the sheet had been pulled down to the sleeping boy's chest, fully exposing his face, neck and shoulders. His mind whirred as he scrutinized the boy's soft, relaxed features as he slept.

The blonde was definitely not someone he had encountered or seen before, this he knew for certain. If he had chanced upon him sooner, he would have noted it, but there was no memory with the kid's face. Whoever he was, he was probably the owner of the extra car he had seen earlier in the drive, the one that did not belong. As curious as it was, the matter of whether the boy belonged or not was no concern of his, only that he was here now and would suffer a similar fate as the rest.

Whether it was now or in fifty years, it was bound to happen eventually anyways.

A leather-clad hand was clamped forcefully over the boy's mouth to interrupt his breathing as Bushido waited a second, two at the most, for groggy, sleep-crusted eyes to crack open. The other hand toyed with the steel knife it held, bringing it to hover centimeters over the boy's pale neck. Sleepy eyes slowly opened and tried to register the situation, but the boy's brain was not given time to wake up and gather its bearings.

Bushido flashed him a horrifically satisfied grin as he plunged the honed tip of the serrated knife down into his soft flesh and dragged it across the width of his neck, grinding it deep into the tightening muscles as the blonde stiffened, realizing much too late what it was that was happening.

A soft, wet gurgle resounded off of the palm of Bushido's slick glove, bare hands scrabbling to get untangled from the dampening, heavy sheets, as if to fend off the other man. The boy's only free hand clawed momentarily at the gloved one still clamped tightly, weakening all the while as a deep crimson liquid spouted and poured from his neck, slowly becoming a leak as his eyes became more and more distant.

xXxXx

It wasn't but moments before his vision darkened that Andreas became aware that it was blood, his blood, that was seeping from his neck and soaking his chest as it still heaved up and down, trying mightily to suck in just a shallow breath. Just one.

His heart was racing, trying to accommodate for the loss, trying to get oxygen to his brain so he could think, act, live - anything. His whole body was tense with shock, complete and utter shock. He didn't know what to do - he didn't even have the time to think. He didn't have the time to cry.

He could feel the same warm, wetness trickling down the side of his face, pooling in his mouth so that his tongue was heavy with it, unable to move as it sank to the back of his throat; flooding his mouth so that he couldn't breathe through it – despite the gloved hand pressed with a bruising force against his lips that he tried desperately to fend off, bat away. But he could sure as hell try - only able to gurgle as it continued to overfill his mouth.

The same iron-scented liquid was forming a thickening puddle beneath his back and his head as it soaked and stained the sodden sheets, almost like someone had dumped warm water over him while he slept.

But it wasn't water. It was blood.

It was his blood.

xXxXx

Bushido watched as the boy's eyes became dull and the hand that had wrapped itself around his wrist went limp, but still managed to keep a loose grip on him. He shook his arm free, pulling his hand away from the pallid face that it covered, and watched as blood flowed freely from where it had been pooling in the boy's mouth. The blonde's hand fell away limply when Bushido moved his own, his arm draping itself over his jagged, contused neck. Clotted dams crumbled and thickening, dark fluid oozed slightly and smeared itself – almost paint-like – across the pale flesh of the boy's arm.

Bushido's nose crinkled in minor disgust at the display as he pinched a lower section of one of the bed sheets between his thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to wipe off his gloves and knife.

What a mess.

With little effort, the blade rubbed clean and soon shone as it had before the incident, bringing a pleased smile to the face of its beholder as he pocketed it, wiping his gloved hands with the sheet once more. He had already put the blonde in the back of his mind – storing it for a later time perhaps – as if it had happened years ago and not just seconds before, the scene just inches from where he stood at the foot of the bed. He was already creating the next scenario in his mind and

It

Was

Exhilarating.

* * *

A/N: Review!


	5. In the Dead of Night

Febrile and murky, it sprayed across the bedspread in a fine, silent mist as Bushido hammered the heel of his palm up into Gordon Trümper's nose, shattering the bridge and sending the shards of cartilage the only way they could go: up. Blood – more and more of it – seeped out from in between Bushido's gloved fingers as he held his hand cautiously over the dying man's face, in the case that the blow to the nose had been off and the technique did not execute as planned. This had happened to him before - more than once - and without careful reactive measures, things got messy. And they had before, much to his displeasure.

But no, not even a soft gurgling or mewl issued from the man's mouth. His already sleep-relaxed body did not slacken any further nor did his hands come up in defense – there was no movement at all. For perhaps the first time it had worked perfectly, the hard thrust upwards had been planted directly in the right zone and the force had been just the right amount, sending the little slivers and chunks of cartilage right into the man's brain.

Silent and instantaneous death had resulted – not an act he truly enjoyed to undertake, but one that was sometimes necessary. He was no angel of mercy nor would he ever be; the thought of torture and blood play excited him far too much. Regrettably, time constraints posed a serious quandary for him, to say the least.

Soft snoring brought his hawk-like eyes to the other side of the bed, slowly tracing the curvy outlines formed by the woman sleeping soundly on the other side. She lay on her side, turned away from the scene that Bushido had just created on her bed. Simone Trümper, he presumed.

The entire time he had been in the room – hell, in the house, he was willing to bet – she had not stirred in the slightest, her near quiet snores still rolling listlessly from slightly parted lips. It was as though she had not heard the sound of her late husband's nose being pounded into his skull, slicing and dicing up its contents; the sounds of the other boy's neck being carved open, or the noise of his intrusion into their home. What a shame, screaming was always fun.

Ripping his gaze away from her slowly rising and falling chest, he checked the watch strapped to his thick, sinewy wrist. Low and behold, he saw that the time was better than he had initially anticipated, the little hands screwed tightly to the face of the clock reading a time that he was sure had already passed. Apparently, though, it was his lucky day and time was on his side, a position it was not fond of taking or one that it took often.

Catlike and soundless, he creeped to her side of the king-size bed, but when he got there he only sat casually on the edge of the mattress beside her, waiting and making himself comfortable. 'Mi casa es su casa,' he thought with a slight chuckle. C'mon, it was pretty funny.

The holster strapped firmly to his upper thigh caught his roving eyes as he surveyed the room for something to entertain himself, the gleaming shine coal-grey metal as captivating as it had ever been. Shifting his weight ever so slightly and glancing down at the sleeping woman's face momentarily to check for disturbance, he snapped open the little clasp that held the revolver in place flush against his leg, the leather of his gloves whispering against the material of the holster. It was a beautiful model, if he did say so himself – a sturdy, solid hunk of stainless steel finished in a glossy black, a 454 Taurus Raging Bull. _Raging Bull_ was emblazoned on the black glinting barrel in thick, blocky letters, the barrel itself stretching on and on - where the actual gun ended, a silencer began in its stead. Looking down the muzzle of this revolver was staring death in the face, because that was the only end result when he pulled the Taurus out.

Bushido rolled its heavy weight in the palms of his hands, testing it and feeling the frigid steel through the thick leather of his gloves, savoring the moment. It was not often that he chose to bring it along with him, or that he even took it out of its satin-lined case. He had bought it in Africa, hunting elephants and Cape buffalo so, so long ago – and it had yet to fail him once. He only needed one word to describe it, and that was: Effective; effective, because that is exactly what it was.

The cylinder rolled silently open on its greased ratchet and he swiveled to face the sleeping blonde woman. Bushido loaded the heavy Casull cartridges into each hole, one by one, taking his sweet, leisurely time. Every cartridge was considerable in weight, solid and about the size – thickness and width – of his thumb. They weighted down his pants with the small pouch he carried them in, but they were the power behind the punch and completely necessary. There was a reason these bullets were used to take down elephants.

A sharp click echoed in the room as he snapped the cylinder back into the gun, rolling it just once for the hell of it. The woman lying beside him stirred, her face scrunching in subconscious agitation, and turned onto her back, arms splayed high above her head. Underneath her waxen eyelids her eyes jiggled in REM sleep, her slumbering mind spinning tale upon tale restlessly and endlessly. Her delicate fingers clutched at the air, but even in her dream, as far as he could see, she could not grasp whatever it was that she was after so relentlessly.

Perhaps she is dreaming of flying, he thought in amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. He plucked a pair of handcuffs from a loop on his belt, watching her chest rise and fall, counting each singular breath. He placed the handcuffs at his side on the flowered bedspread, lifting the revolver he still clutched in one hand above her head, resting the muzzle against one pale elbow. Freezing steel created a trail of goose bumps from her elbow to her underarm as he dragged the gun softly – almost reverently – across her waxy skin, until he reached the slight curve of her breast, pausing for a moment as he was sure he felt the light fluttering of her heart vibrating up through the twisted metal into his hand. The Taurus rose and fell along with each breath she took as it rested lightly on her chest before he proceeded to trace the contours of her soft body, pulling down the covers in a deliberate manner with the silencer attached to the gun.

The quilt that lay on top of her gradually bunched together and fell away from her body, revealing a modest night gown of pale pink cotton, embroidered with an intricate lace pattern. It was somewhat disappointing, he thought, for a woman such as her to be seen dressed in such plain sleepwear, but only slightly. Her gown had gathered up around her thighs, he noticed, as he continued to pull the revolver along, lower and lower. He used the muzzle to stroke the creamy white skin of her inner thigh, sending a more noticeable shudder running up her body.

At first Simone did not respond to the perverse ministrations; but he watched as the cold steel induced an involuntary shiver through her – one at first, then many. He also noted when her eyes stopped trembling beneath her eyelids, her sleeping becoming more and more shallow as he continued. She was waking up. About damn time.

Her brown eyes finally cracked open, glazed with sleep as she tried to gather her bearings. She did not even begin to register the man now towering above her holding a gun against her leg; she only stared up at him hazily. In her mind, she was still dreaming, that was all - a strange dream now, more so than the one from before, but a dream nonetheless.

Bushido tenderly lay his gloved hand over her slightly parted lips, almost in a kind, caring way. Her breath gusted lazily over his palm, her reaction nonexistent, still half asleep and unaware.

"Hello, Beautiful," he purred coyly, "I just wanna play." His white teeth flashed from within his mouth in a lewd grin as her eyes increasingly began to widen, much more alert than before.

No, it was just a dream. Just a dream.

Her breathing quickened, coming out in short, bursting puffs of moist heat, and Bushido felt her heart beat pick up speed. The hands that she had subconsciously spread above her head gripped at the wooden bars of the headboard, using them as a sort of life support, a tie to reality; because this could not be it. Her knuckles turned a ghastly white from the power in which she was using to clutch the bars, but she did not notice. The only thing around her that she saw or could even comprehend was the man looming over her, the intruder in her home.

He pulled the muzzle of the revolver out from in between her thighs and pressed it into her soft abdomen, gently but growing more painful as his initial press turned into a harsh, bruising thrust. He angled the gun so that it was exactly perpendicular with the side of her body. If he had to shoot he could not hit her spine. He couldn't have her dying on him yet.

Simone cringed from the pressure he was putting on her side and she tried to slide over on the bed to relieve it, just a little. The bedclothes rustled as she shifted her body over ever so slightly, her left arm creeping over to the other side of the bed where Gordon lay. She could not turn her head to look to him, because of the man's hand over her mouth, pressing her head into the pillow, but she could at least try and reach for him, shake him awake.

Of course, Bushido saw this, but he did not bother stopping her. The man, _Gordon_, no longer posed a threat to him and the woman would soon find this out for herself.

But she thought she was being sneaky, that he just did not notice. Her hand glided silently over the pillowcase of the opposite pillow and then came into contact with hair, a head, a face. Trembling fingertips fluttered across a smooth forehead and over unresponsive eyelids, already comprehending what her mind did not seem to want her to know, did not want her to realize.

Bushido stared down into her fearful eyes as her fingers travelled to the bridge of her husband's nose, soft and squishy where cartilage no longer was, skin bunched into folds where his forehead sloped down into his nose. It was absolutely delightful to watch as her brow furrowed in confusion, then as her eyes widened in astonishment, finally shimmering and pained in realization of the circumstances.

Now she seemed to understand the exact circumstances she was in. Good.

Gloved fingers tapped contemplatively on her pallid cheek, Bushido musing to himself as he stared down at her with a twisted thoughtfulness. The way he saw it, there were two options at the moment: The first was to shoot her now and have it over with. The second, a bit more true to his character, was to bind and gag this _Simone_ and take her into another room where he could drag out whatever he chose to do to her.

But that all depended on her.

"If you keep sil-"

And then she screamed. Loudly.

Naturally, it was muffled by the hand bearing heavily on her face, cutting the volume and pitch significantly, but she still screamed; a high, guttural growling from the very deepest regions of her throat. And she thrashed beneath him, struggling mightily to kick at him or hit him, the volume of her scream escalating, despite his hand suppressing it. Shame.

He sighed in mock disappointment, shaking his head patronizingly. "You stupid bitch, I tried to warn you."

TSSINK.

Her body jerked violently as the Casull shot ripped through her stomach – a fist through crepe paper – the contents cascading across the bed sheets in a muddy shower of viscera, the sonic crack of the silencer on the revolver still ringing softly in his ears.

Bushido removed the hand he had clasped over her mouth, because she was in too great of shock to scream now. The large gaping hole that had once been her abdomen pulsed subtly as she lay there, wheezing, unsure of what to even do now. Her arms, which had shot up towards him before he had pulled the trigger, lowered shakily down to her barely existent sides, her mouth slack and gaping with disbelief. Her breath stopped - she could not breathe for shock, too utterly surprised to try and inflate her lungs. All that was left above the pelvis and below the ribcage were fleshy ribbons of muscle and skin, strips of organs, a pool of blood. She choked on rising bile and spittle as she tried to speak, scream, anything.

Seeing this, he rested his hand over her mouth again, smothering her, not wanting to attract the attention of the remaining members of the household.

_"Anything but this!"_

The crushing grip on the woman's face loosened marginally as brown eyes widened significantly. Bushido almost took a step back from the bed; his hand coming up more from where it had been smothering the blonde's mouth as the gun just about fell from his other hand.

Who said that?

Bushido turned, searching quickly behind him and straining his ears for more sound, his hand still hovering over the woman's – _Simone's_ - face. It was almost a frantic way in which he did this, yet he still managed to keep his outward composure of calm for when he would encounter the person who had spoken. Which he would do.

Only when a weak, soft cough sounded from the pale trembling lips of the woman beneath him, small specks of warm, dark liquid splattering up his wrist as she gurgled, drowning in her own blood as she tried to utter some call for help, did he flash back into reality, the sounds - or lack thereof - of the house crashing back onto him. Quiet.

No one was there. No one had ever been there, nor had anyone said anything. It was just his imagination. This is what he told himself – assured himself.

His eyes flashed dangerously as he leered down at the slackening face of the woman on the bed with a new sort emotion beneath the surface. The wet bubbling sounds were still coming from the back of her throat as she tried to speak, a fine spray of crimson issuing from between her chapped lips – a sad attempt at speech.

"I warned you," he admonished, still inwardly shaken by what - he thought – had just happened. His tone was sharp and condescending, as though she had brought this upon herself, like a child who had been warned not to do something, but did it regardless. His eyes were still searching the room warily as he gathered the hand cuffs he had laid on the bed earlier. A soft _tsk tsk_ noise fell from his pink lips, mixing perversely with the merciless clicking and locking of the cuffs as they were cinched brutally around her shaking wrists. Grabbing up a section of the bedspread in his solid hands, he ripped off a section and tied the flowery-printed cloth across her mouth as a gag to suppress nonexistent noise.

Bushido cocked his head to the side suddenly, listening. Whispering and shuffling about in another room alerted him to the presence of others, the twins he presumed. His lips spread into a heinous grin. He had saved the best for last.

Simone, dazed and confused, seemed to hear the noises as well, through the cloud that was fogging her mind. She struggled to move, her hands grasping at the air, at anything, as a pained sob escaped her, wracking her already quivering frame. The cuffs on her wrists jingled as she moved, clanking together.

"Be silent!" he snapped at her in the most hushed of voices, holding his hand up as the little murmurs floated into the master bedroom, sweet as candy to his sadistic ears.

Whoever was in the other room did not hear them, because the faint noises went on undisturbed.

"Be a good girl, Mama," he hissed lowly in her ear, grabbing her blonde hair up into his fist, twisting it roughly and using it as leverage to haul her supine, barely intact body off the bed. A hoarse, muffled groan issued from behind the cloth gag in her mouth, but that was about all of the noise that she could muster as the systems inside her broken body slowly and despairingly slipped into shock, death following quickly on its heels.

She thrashed weakly against him, clawing at his hands with her fingernails and digging her heels into first the bed and then into the floor, trying to get him to stop. Simone could not let him go any further in the house, could not allow him to cause any more damage than he already had. She had heard them, her little boys. They were still safe, still untouched. She would die three thousand more times before she ever let this man lay a single, dirty finger on her sons.

Paying the woman no mind, Bushido stashed the Taurus back into its holster and pulled a much smaller Browning Hi-Power from the waistband of his pants. Some jobs didn't need the kind of power associated with the Taurus, and this was one of them.

The whispering of the carpet echoed loudly through the eerily silent upstairs as they moved through the room, the soft moaning from Simone's mouth as she struggled futilely to get away from her captor failed to sound above her own body being dragged from the bedroom and into the hallway. A quiet thud caused Bushido to look back towards her momentarily, noting that he had distractedly knocked her into the jamb of the doorway as they passed through it. Whoops.

"Mom?" A young boy's voice floated tentatively from the darkened room just beyond. "Mom, is that you?" it asked again, cautiously, closer this time. Bedsprings squeaked as a person moved, bed clothes swishing as they were shrugged and pushed away.

Her arms dropped from trying to pry away his wrist, getting heavier with each passing moment. Simone worked at the gag over her face, coughing and spitting as she pulled it from her mouth. "Hasan, Carsten!" she croaked, gasping in pain as the grip on her hair tightened in response.

Pausing, he turned to look down at her writhing form, contemplating just killing her where he stood. There was no point in that, though, not now at least. He opted for yanking her viciously instead, a haggard yelp responding.

All the sounds from the room had ceased when she had yelled to them, no one moving or even breathing. Bushido heard neither of the two boys even dare to speak from the hall. With the pistol in one hand and Simone's hair clenched in the other, he ambled through the door into the twins' bedroom as though he owned the house.

"Both of you," he growled depravedly, yanking their mother up to her feet by her hair and stabbing her in the ribcage with the muzzle of the pistol, reveling in the agonizing moan that she let out. "Get up. No dawdling, there's no time for that."

Carsten, who had been the one calling for Simone, froze where he stood near Hasan's bed, his chest hitching as he choked down a frightened sob. Hasan stood rigidly to the side of his bed, eyes wide with alarmed confusion, but otherwise unsure of how to act or feel.

"Mom?" he muttered slowly, incredulously.

Simone emitted a strangled whimper, tears only now escaping her eyes as she saw her two little boys still intact and alive.

"Get out- …of here!" She choked on her words as Bushido thrust the gun harder into her side to shut her up.

"What was that, Mama?" Bushido mocked, putting his ear close to her blood-stained lips. "Your boys? Yeah, they're okay, as you can see." He used the pistol to gesture towards them, smiling broadly as though he were presenting his own family and not holding a dying woman and killing hers.

He directed his next statement at them, staring at the two boys pointedly. "But they better not even try to run away, because that would be quite a fatal mistake, wouldn't it, Mama?" He used his grip on her hair to shake her head in a nodding motion to agree with him. "Quite the mistake indeed."

Hasan's attention was finally ripped away from the gaping hole in his mother's abdomen and it was then that he actually took a good look at the unwelcome guest in their home.

His stomach fell and his knees knocked together, almost giving out beneath him. He stumbled back a step, pulling Carsten's stiff self with him and pushing his brother behind him, shielding him with his own body.

The man before them had a gruff face and a stubbly beard, shorter in some places than in others. His dark hair was cropped close to his skull on top and shaved completely on the sides. He had dark, menacing eyes that seemed to peer into Hasan's very soul, eyes that said they knew everything – every deep, dark secret, every hope, each dream. Eyes that were familiar, very, very familiar.

Ones that he had encountered not but a few hours before.

The sinister grin only spread further across Bushido's face as he saw this, his brown eyes twinkling in delight. "Nice to meet you again as well, little Hasan," he acknowledged, lowering their mother to the floor and propping her against the wall like a rag doll.

Carsten, clinging to the back of Hasan's shirt petrified, whispered, "Again? What is he talking about, Hasan?" But he did not stop there, everything rushed out in a slur of muted, fearful words. "What are we going to do? Why does he have mom? Where is dad? And Bill? And Andreas? Where are they? Hasan, I'm scared!" The last part came out in a sniffle, his resolve beginning to falter already as Hasan felt his brother quiver against his back. He could hear Carsten crying, feeling as the tears soaked the shoulder of his shirt. If he were not so bound by his own fear, he would have been up in an instant, consoling his brother and trying to alleviate all of his fears, telling him that none of it was real, just a dream.

But it was real, all of it. So clear-cut and unequivocal that his mind was numb, he could not even begin to comprehend it.

Standing there, Bushido looked bored. He was not there to watch some little kids cry their eyes out, things needed to be done, because he had places to go and people to torture – in all senses of the phrase.

He looked down at Simone, who was a ghastly pale, shivering mess. She was on the verge of unconsciousness, her head was nodding to the side, almost as if she could not hold it up herself anymore, and her eyelids were drooping; even though she still battled against the fatigue she was now feeling, it was a losing fight. Actually, he was surprised that she had made it this long, but at the same time, not really.

"Ah, boys." He made a _tsk tsk-ing_ noise, shaking his head sadly as he looked down at their mother. "Look at how much pain she is in, how she is suffering so." He replaced the grin he had been wearing with a more solemn expression of understanding and pity, but inwardly was laughing like a mad man.

"You sick fuck." Hasan finally broke the seal of silence that had been looming over him, his voice venomous and searing. He squared his shoulders and straightened to his full height, which was not much more than four and a half feet. "You leave our mother alone!" he snarled.

Bushido held back the laughter that was threatening to break loose and kept up the somber façade, trying his best to ignore the outburst. "Ah, but don't you think we should do something to end her suffering?" he offered, rolling the words off his tongue in a languid, sweet manner.

Taken aback by the sudden suggestion, Hasan's face dropped, his eyes distancing. What the hell was that supposed to mean, end her suffering? After a moment he responded, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but you better get outta here, before the police come! I bet our neighbors already know you're here!" he yelled at Bushido, clenching his hands into fists.

It was getting really difficult not to burst out laughing. Continuing on before the kid had time to comprehend what it was that he was saying, Bushido turned his attention to the other twin. "Carsten," he started, false pity and worry dripping from his words, "Do you think your mother would want to be like this, sad and in pain? Look at how she trembles, she must be hurting so badly, don't you think?"

Carsten responded much more quickly than his counterpart, mumbling, "Mom, are you in pain? Do you want me to help?" He stared at Simone's limp body with blank eyes, looking through her more so than at her.

"And if you knew you could help her, wouldn't you do it?" This was too easy.

The younger of the two nodded dolefully, looking up at the intruder with big, watery eyes.

Hasan hit his brother in the side, hard, and pushed him back further behind himself. "Shut up, Carsten!" he snapped under his breath. "No!" he yelled, getting his nerve back. "You are not going to do anything to her, don't touch our mom!"

Bushido's eyes glinted maliciously in the moonlight that seeped through one of the room's windows and he took a step forward, gesturing largely with his hands. "Oh, but I was not talking of myself doing anything to your dear, old mama, but rather," he paused, waiting to see if one of them would catch on before he said it, finishing, "one of you." The smirk finally broke out again, because he could not hold it in any longer.

The boy's jaw dropped and he shook his head fiercely, his fingers digging piercingly into Carsten where he was holding onto him. "Go fucking die," he hissed vehemently, the air in the room becoming more hostile, Hasan getting ready to pounce.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Bushido pulled back the hammer on the Browning and pointed it at Simone's head, finger tensing on the trigger as he watched the two brothers. "Well, what if I told you that, if one of you shoots her, ends her _suffering_," he emphasized the word, drawing it out as he said it, "I'll let the other one go."

This caught them both off guard, Carsten already crying silently again where they stood, Hasan too lost in thought to react.

All Carsten could think of was their poor mother. How could they let her suffer any longer by letting her live, it was almost like keeping her alive any longer was more of a punishment than killing her now. But how could either of them honestly do that to their own mother? She had always been there for them, but what about when she needed them the most? All he could manage to do was cling to Hasan and shake and cry like a baby - the one time where he needed to be a man and he couldn't, he just couldn't.

Hasan felt Carsten tense against his back, unsure of what to even say. What could they say? As much as he tried to believe that his dad and Bill and Andreas were okay, he couldn't bring himself to do it – he had a gut-wrenching feeling that the man had already found them. It was only him and Carsten left in the world and he couldn't let them both die now, he just couldn't.

Bushido tapped the muzzle of the pistol against his thigh impatiently. "Okay, I can see that you need to take your precious time in thinking about this, so I'll ask you something else. Who else is in the house?" He remembered the other car out in the drive and needed to make sure that the blonde was the only unwelcome guest here, that there were no more.

Carsten was surprisingly the first to respond this time, his voice muffled by his brother's shirt as he tried to cut off the flow of tears. "No one else is here, just us and our mom," he whimpered jaggedly, trying not to burst into tears again. Did the man already know about Bill and Andreas? What about their dad? Maybe they were still okay and were getting help, or hiding and coming to save them now. At least, this is what Carsten wanted to believe, but whether or not he actually did was debatable.

In a flash of movement, Bushido was next to them and he grabbed Carsten by the face and roughly turned his head so that the boy was looking him straight in the eyes. An agitated smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth – he was not amused. "Don't lie to me, kid," he spat, "I already know there's someone here that isn't normally."

"…A-Andreas…?" The name tumbled from Hasan's lips before he could stop it, a question more than anything, but he hoped that the man hadn't heard him. Hasan had tried to be strong for his brother, but as he said Andreas' name he could feel long overdue tears finally begin to well in his hazel eyes and he heard Carsten begin to sob a bit more loudly, his dejected moans wracking his thin body as well as Hasan's, whom he was forcefully leaning against.

"That the name of the blonde?" Bushido asked rhetorically as he grabbed Carsten by the upper arm, wrenching him away from his brother and pulling him towards where their mother still laid, soft breaths miraculously still tumbling out from between her lips. Carsten yelped at the cutting grip on his arm, the pain in his shoulders making him follow quickly.

Hasan did not even feel it though, when his brother was yanked away from him, his mind working at a thousand miles a minute and far away, his eyes distant.

Big, fat tears finally began to stream down Hasan's cheeks in droves – from the horrifying realization that Andreas, a person that he had known since he was an infant and someone who had been like a second older brother to him, had been found; but also out a perverse sort of joy that that this …man – no, he was not even a man, but a monster – still seemed to be oblivious to Bill's presence in the house; his brother was still okay. Yet his mother, most likely his father, and Andreas were gone, and now this man was in their room.

He snapped back into reality, though, when he heard his brother's soft whimpering escalate to sobbing and felt that there was no longer the warm weight of his brother pressed against his back.

"Don't touch my brother!" he screamed, launching himself at Bushido as though his mere 72lbs would have any effect on a man twice his size. Hitting Bushido was the equivalent of ramming himself into a brick wall, but this did not stop him. He started punching at him and kicking him in the shins, trying to wrench Carsten out of his grip.

Bushido only laughed humorlessly though, and stuck the gun in his waistband, grabbing Hasan by the neck and hurled him towards the wall opposite them. Carsten screamed and tried to break free of Bushido to run to his brother, but he held him tight, squeezing his arm until the boy cried out in pain. Hasan hit the wall with a sickening thud, crumpling to the ground in a heap.

"Let's try this again," Bushido snapped, silencing the cries issuing from the youngest twin. "Who wants to be the valiant one here and who wants to get out?" he demanded, painting his words sickly sweet, but they still managed to be harsh and fearsome along the edges. He shook the youngest boy whose arm he still had in a vice. "What do ya say, little Carsten? Do you wanna let your brother get outta here unscathed or are you waiting for him to save your skin?" He seized hold of the boy's small hand and wound it around the pistol, folding his little finger over the trigger.

Carsten simply bawled, hiccupping between sobs as Bushido shook him. He couldn't answer that, he just wanted everything to end, to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream and then have his mother come and comfort him until he fell asleep again.

"No!" Hasan took the initiative and trembled as he said, struggling to get to his feet again, "No, don't give the gun to Carsten…" He paused, unsure of whether or not to continue, but finally he managed to get up with minimal spinning of the room around him and took a crooked step towards the man that seemed to be about twice his size and said, "Let me do it."

Letting his little brother do it was unthinkable, Carsten would never manage to pull it off. He was too caring, too soft.

Plus, if he could manage to time it right-

"So you want to give it a go, huh?" Bushido grinned. He ripped the pistol from Carsten's shaking hands and held it out to Hasan.

He gagged, repulsed, as he took a step closer to his mother, reaching for the gun. His fingers brushed the cold steel, just about to grasp it, when it was wrenched away suddenly.

"Try anything and I will rip your brother to pieces and feed him to you, got it?" he warned, his eyes burning into the boy's.

Hasan nodded weakly, his gaze travelling to his little brother, who was held in place by one of the man's strong hands. Carsten shook his head, silently telling him not to do it, willing him to just run while he still could, while he had the gun; but Hasan stood firm, even though all he wanted to do was cry and run.

"P-promise you will let Carsten go when I do this and won't go after him? Do you swear you will?" He bit back the stutter and tried to look brave and unshaken before his brother and their captor, building up his resolve.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," he leered, holding his other gloved hand to his chest above his heart.

The hammer was already pulled back, the safety off – not that Hasan would have known the difference. He stared longingly at his mother for a moment, hoping with all of his heart that she would simply jump up at that moment, completely unharmed, and sweep them up into her arms and whisk the two of them away from here; from there they would live happily and forget the whole occurrence.

Simone may have been dead already, for all the good that his hoping did them. He could not even tell if she was breathing anymore, her whole body still and slumped up against the wall, the carpet beneath her soaked and almost black with blood.

He loved her, he did, but there was nothing more he could do. Even he could tell there was no saving her at this point, even if by some miracle the police and an ambulance arrived right this instant. She was too far gone. Hasan still had his brother to think about though, because his brother was still alive and breathing and still had a chance. If Carsten could get out unscathed and at least physically intact then…he would do whatever he had to do.

'_I love you, mom.'_

CRACK

The blast rang unfiltered through the room, rattling the window panes as the plaster to the side of Simone's head splintered and spewed a puff of white dust as the bullet passed through her skull at high speeds and embedded itself into the wall, cracks weaving up from and around the point of impact.

Simone's body jerked strongly, teetered for a moment, and then slid down the wall to one side until she was lying on the carpet on her side, eyes heavily lidded and dull. Blood speckled the white wall in fine little droplets, smeared in an arc in the place where she had slid down.

Carsten lurched backwards and vomited all over the bed beside him – his, Hasan's, he could not even remember. His mind reeled at the same speed as his stomach as he gripped the wooden footboard, dry heaving onto the sheets. Hasan had actually done it; he had really shot their mother.

Bushido applauded him sarcastically, chuckling darkly.

Hasan stood there, shaking violently, his eyes wide and crazed, but unseeing. He held his arms out still, holding the gun in front of him, pointed at where his mother once sat.

"Good job, kid," Bushido declared, moving towards him and clapping him on the back. He covered Hasan's hands with one of his own and lowered his arms until the gun was pointed at the floor. He took it from his and shoved it back into the waistband of his pants, Hasan still unresponsive and Carsten dazed and leaning over the end of one of the beds, no longer aware of the happenings around him.

"It's been fun, truly it has," He pulled the Taurus from its holster, puffed hot air on one of its gleaming sides and shined it against the thigh of his pants, "But it's time for me to hit the road, and I can't just leave without tying up these last few loose ends."

His teeth flashed in an enormous, wicked grin as Hasan slowly turned to look up at him, face twisted between confusion and something like anger, but not fearful – not anymore.

Bushido pressed the cold muzzle to the young boy's forehead, giddily almost. "Nighty night, boys."

He pulled the trigger once, then twice, each crack of the revolver followed by the solid thump of a body colliding with the floor – one of his most favorite sounds.

* * *

A/N: So? Whattaya think?

Oh, and where is Bill, you ask? He is somewhere, he is somewhere~

On another note, I dedicate this chapter to my skank ass whore of a friend, Hannah (I will not put her username in here, because that would involve having to look it up and she knows who she is), because she got me to actually finish this up and post it.

P.S. Hannah, I still want to punch you,

Love,

me.


	6. Black Mass

A/N: In case you were unsure in the first chapter, the warnings for this story are very serious and the content may offend some people. I am unable to revise the earlier warnings at the moment, but I can advise you to read them once more to make sure you know what you are in for in the coming chapters, if you did not already realize it in the previous one. I will make an updated warnings list for Chapter 7

Thank you, please enjoy the story :)

* * *

"_Don't touch my brother!"_

Bill jolted to alertness, tumbling out of the chair he sat in as the shots from his dream continued to ring in his ears. Screams, otherworldly and haunting, echoed through his head, still sounding from his subconscious. He had just had the worst nightmare ever imaginable and he could not even begin to understand or describe it. It had been so…surreal, yet so lucid and intense at the same time, like nothing he had ever experienced before. There had been an earthquake, screaming, so much screaming, and guns everywhere; people fighting and killing each other for no reason, or at least not for any reason he could understand. Their blood flowed through the streets, trickling into the sewers as he watched helplessly, the wet splash sounding above all else as hit the muddied waters beneath the streets. Everything was chaotic and everyone in it he had known yet hadn't at the same time, like he felt that he should know them but couldn't remember who they were no matter how hard he tried. It had been horrible and he could still hear it inside his mind.

He rubbed his sore head and dug his freshly manicured nails into the leather upholstery of the chair he had just fallen out of, standing up on wobbly legs. His mind was still foggy with sleep as he looked around dazedly, standing there awkwardly and unsure of what to do; and for the love of god he could not remember where he had fallen asleep. Blinking his brown eyes into focus, he tried to gather his thoughts and figure out where the hell he was.

Well, there was a chair - that he was sure of.

And it was dark - really dark.

That was pretty much the extent of his knowledge at the moment.

Bill rubbed his sleep-crusted eyes and sat carefully back in the chair, tucking his legs beneath himself and reclining lazily, taking inventory of the room. Even with the sparse amount of light in the room, he could tell that there were bookshelves lining the walls on almost all sides and a desk just off to his left, but the finer details he could not make out.

He closed his eyes and leaned back further in the leather chair, breathing deeply. Then it hit him. That was right; he was in his parents' house. And apparently, by the looks of things, he had fallen asleep in the office. He smiled softly to himself as he finally remembered, un-tucking his legs from beneath himself and stretching deeply, the abhorrence of the dream dissolving along with his languor. Bill yawned silently and rubbed his neck with a grimace as he moved to stand up again. Falling asleep in an armchair was not one of his better ideas - at least he assumed this from the way his neck was smarting after the fact – and now probably wouldn't be able to get back to sleep in his own bed.

'Man,' he thought to himself, 'I had been sleeping so well too – besides that stupid nightmare…'

Gripping the back of the chair, he stood up on shaky legs, letting the blood flow to them after hours of sleeping with them folded under him and then sitting back on them again after he had fallen. Reaching out in front of him, he groped fruitlessly in the dark for a few moments before the tips of his fingers finally came into contact with the lamp chain and he pulled it down with a click.

Nothing.

Taking another step forward, he pulled it down to turn it off and then pulled it once more, a little bit more roughly this time.

No, it was still dark.

Huffing in minor annoyance he clicked it off _again_ and twisted the light bulb, making sure that it hadn't come loose or something stupid like that, before pulling the chain just once more - nothing. The only response he got was the shaking of the lamp shade as the lamp wobbled from his forceful cord pulling - fantastic.

Frowning, Bill pulled the chain back into the off position and, wobbling slightly for the first step or two, walked over to where he knew the wall switch was and tried that. He flicked it up with his finger, but it worked about as well as the lamp had a few moments ago, not lighting up the room at all like it was supposed to. Perhaps a fuse had blown, or, with his luck, both of the light bulbs had fizzled out at the same time.

Bill muttered under his breath agitatedly, "Stupid hou-"

A gunshot sounded upstairs, roaring loudly through the quiet house.

Immediately, Bill dropped to the ground, pressing himself flat against the floor, his eyes darting every which way. 'What the fuck was that?' he wondered, almost asking it aloud. Did his parents even own a gun? They had never said anything to him about having one, but that did not mean they didn't have one hidden somewhere.

But he was pretty sure that they didn't.

Who would be using it at this time anyways? And in the house…

Careful to be as silent as humanly possible, he rose to his knees, hands pressed against the wall for support. From upstairs he could hear retching and what sounded almost like…tapping? Clapping? He could not tell for certain. Straining to hear anything more, he held his breath, leaning forward. All he could hear, though, was the frantic thumping of his own heart against his ribcage, blood pounding in his ears and rushing to his head.

Sock-clad feet landed silently on the wood flooring as he stood, taking his first step outside of the office and into the even darker hallway, softly and slowly releasing the breath he held. From where he stood, Bill could see into the kitchen on the other side of the house; light of different blue hues was being thrown across the tile floor by the moon, splashing up the walls in ghoulish shapes and patterns. He clutched the door jamb tightly, his long nails digging into the wall. There was no reason to panic, right? It was probably all just his imagination; surely, after the dream he had just had, he was probably still hearing flashes of it, reliving it in a sense.

That was entirely plausible; extremely likely, in fact. He was getting all worked up for nothing.

He sighed and took a deep breath, easing his grip on the wall. His dad would be angry at him tomorrow when he saw the crescent shaped groves Bill had indented in the wall - if he noticed them at all. Bill tried to laugh at this thought, ease his tension; but it did not make him feel any better, his laughter barely sounding above a whisper, hollow and tinny. Taking another step forward, he listened for anyone or anything upstairs, but there was nothing else, only the sounds of a sleeping house. Regardless, Bill was mindful of each step he took, watching for the spots that he knew creaked and for anything that his brothers could have left out for him to trip on.

Using the sporadic patches of moonlight to guide him, he glided through the hallway and slipped down the two steps into the breakfast nook, pausing once at the bottom to listen again. There was a feeling he could not shake, something gathering at the back of his consciousness.

But he grinned stupidly to himself regardless as he heard nothing from anywhere in the house but his own slightly frantic breathing. Yeah, it had just been the dream from earlier replaying itself to him, his own overactive imagination playing tricks on him, per usual.

Yet, still, something was clawing at the back of his mind – the fact that everything was _too _calm. Everything was peaceful – exactly as it should be; but at the same time it was not right. The home was too quiet, missing sounds that should have been there. The air, normally alive and buzzing with electricity, was clear. The closer that Bill got to the kitchen, the more peculiar everything became. Emitting no sound, the refrigerator stood silently in a darker corner of the kitchen where it normally hummed robotically. No green glow was cast off by the microwave or the coffee maker from where they sat atop the counters, their digital faces wiped clean, black and void.

His first instinct was to go over to one the machines and check if it was plugged in

_TSSINK - _THUMP

_TSSINK – _THUMP

Two more shots reverberated off the walls of the pitch black house, the boom flying down the stairs and through the lower level, hitting Bill like a train. He staggered backwards a bit, as if he had been pushed, and clutched at the air behind him, trying to find something he could grab hold of to steady himself; his dark, honey-colored eyes widened two times their normal size. Bill's heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat, hands immediately seizing the chair that stood next to him beside the table. This was not his imagination, not this time it wasn't.

He fell to his haunches, clinging to the wooden chair as though it were his last tie to reality. His vision quickly blurred as tears welled in his eyes, the confusion he was feeling overwhelming him. He sat there, unable to move, unable to even think, barely able to breathe. A few stray tears trailed down his cheeks, plopping on his pant legs, quickly soaking through to his skin.

These two shots were different from the first, sharper and more powerful, yet stifled in a way the other one had not been. And the heavy thuds that had followed them had not occurred before either, unique to those two shots.

What was happening?

What was going on in his house?

Above his head the floorboards groaned softly under the weight of some unseen and unknown person, jerking him from his idle thoughts and dropping him back into reality. Eyes wide and heart thumping frantically, Bill squeezed himself through the gap in between two of the chairs at the table as quietly and as quickly as he could and curled himself tightly into a ball, the darkness blanketing him. He scooted across the floor until his back made contact with the chair furthest from the stairs, and even then he wished he could have moved further. Blood pounded in his ears until he could not even hear his own thoughts - nothing that was happening made any sense to him and everything that he wanted to do he could not, because his own body defied him and just wound itself tighter into a protective ball. Unwelcome and unneeded tears streamed down his face in messy black rivers of eyeliner, but that was the last thing on his mind as the white tips of his fingernails kneaded into his pant legs anxiously, his fear intensifying with each beat of his already frenzied heart.

Bill tried to remind himself that he was also in an old house, and old houses made weird sounds all the time. Sure, he had never heard anything like it before, but that did not mean it was impossible. Then there were also ghosts – ghosts were a definite possibility in an old house like this one. Hadn't he and Andreas been convinced there was one residing in the house when they were kids? Ghosts made creepy noises, that was a given.

Another creaking floorboard sounded above his head, followed closely by another – footsteps.

There was definitely someone in the house, he was positive of this now.

His hands found their way up to his hair, grasping it and pulling, trying desperately to wake him from this impending nightmare.

This was not happening. This was not happening. This was not happening.

Gasping for breath, Bill's chest hitched and tightened as panic began to set in. He was not even certain that anything at all was happening, yet as hard as he tried to deceive himself into believing everything was a dream, a small part of him knew the truth and would not let him lie anymore.

Bill could not breathe.

From where he was huddled beneath the table, he could see up into the kitchen a ways and all the way to the other side of the house to the front door. It was not that far from where he sat… If he crawled out from beneath the cover of the table and ran, sprinted and hoped with every fiber of his being, and did not stumble, he could make it out before anyone knew what was happening…

His nails dug into his scalp and he yanked at his own hair again, angrily, desperately, knowingly. That was the stupidest thing he could do. The door was bolted, and even if he made it there without falling flat on his face he would have to stop panicking and shaking long enough to unlock the door – he was not sure he could manage that at this point.

Still trying to catch his breath long enough to quell his stammering heart, Bill cast his gaze in the other direction towards the kitchen. The sliding back door was just beyond the outcropping counter that obstructed his view, a much more likely prospect than the front door. Drawing his knees closer to his chest, he shivered softly as a cold breeze gusted lightly against his back, interrupting his thoughts. Turning slowly, he soon faced the wall of gleaming picture windows, the glass in each pane sparkling prettily. They all reflected the table which he resided under, all but one. White lacy curtains hanging in front of the window billowed soundlessly around the gaping pane, fanning out into the breakfast nook lazily with each puff of cold air.

In a flash, Bill was out from beneath the table and edging away from the open window, as though it were the perpetrator in all of this, as though it were to blame. He backed into the kitchen until he was stopped when his hips collided with the edge of the counter. Jumping, startled by the sudden contact, he gripped the counter tightly, laying his cheek against the cool surface, grateful that it was not something – _someone_ – else that he had run into.

He straightened quickly though, unable to stop his mind and heart from racing. His eyes darted back and forth from every object in the kitchen. Nothing seemed to be on, nothing seemed to be working. Every light was off and digital clock was blank, their screens black. He had no idea what time it was, but what did it matter anyway? His frenetic gaze finally landed on his saving grace, hanging up on the wall just to the side of the coffee maker. The telephone.

As silently as he could manage, he slid across the floor to the other side of the kitchen where an off-white wall phone lay in its cradle, calling for him. Bill sidled up close to where the phone was hanging, his frenzied gaze flitting about him, eyeing every single shadow, each movement causing him to jerk around in paranoia.

Trembling, he reached for the phone, lifting it from its cradle with both hands tightly wrapped around it, trying desperately not to let it slip from his quivering fingers. The phone came up to his ear, the cool plastic chilling him further; but nothing was as cold as what he heard when the phone pressed against his ear – or rather, what he did not hear.

Pulling it away from his face, he stared at the object dumbly, unsure if he had just not heard the tone or if there was not one to begin with. Bill pressed the phone back up to his face with one hand, the other moving back to the cradle and pressing the hook down to hang up the phone and then letting it come back up again – but there was still no tone. He pressed it again, a bit more harshly this time, but to no avail. He tried the buttons, dialing _911_ once, then twice, and then anything, pressing all the buttons desperately in hopes that one of them would make the phone work again.

Even though a part of him had known it before, had suspected it from the beginning, this just confirmed it to him with complete and utter clarity. There was no power in the house, none at all.

Bill slumped against the counter and slid down the wall until he was sitting with his knees pressed painfully into his chest; the receiver of the phone still held firmly against the side of his head, as though its status would change the longer he listened. How could the phone just not work? This was real life! Only in movies did things ever happen like this, bumps in the night and then no electricity.

Time seemed to stop. He gaped at the wall blankly, unable to move or to yet comprehend his situation. But that had not been just some 'bump' in the night, some evil movie monster pent on revenge. That had been a gunshot – _three_ gunshots; in the house, all in the span of mere minutes. One was an accident, three was not.

There was no power.

A broken, silent sob wracked his frame as this thought finally began to set in, fresh tears springing to his eyes. There was no power in a house that was just over three miles away from its closest neighbor, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. No one came around at this time of night, no one was out; at least, no one he would want to warrant help from…

It was all happening so slowly, yet everything that had happened had transpired in a matter of seconds, a couple minutes perhaps. Bill raked his jittering hand through his hair, a nervous habit. His cell phone. His cell phone was somewhere upstairs, in his room probably; power or no power that would still work. He looked towards where the front entry was. There was no way he could just mosey on up the stairs and get his phone, no way in hell.

The back stairs, though, would take him up, almost directly into his room. Yes, the back stairs. If he could get into the pantry without knocking anything over and was able to find the wall panel, it would be no problem at all to get into his room from there. At least he hoped so.

Standing shakily, he leaned against the countertop, above all trying not to hyperventilate. The first thing to catch his eye was the gargantuan pan hanging above the centre island in the kitchen. The thick metal gleamed almost warily, twisting sluggishly on its hook along with the others.

He needed a weapon.

Clutching the phone to his chest, Bill cast a last wayward glance at the pan. He could not use that, it was too heavy, too cumbersome. It would only get in his way.

Some obscure object moved across his field of vision, flashing in and out of sight. Bill jolted, suddenly alert as he jerked away from where he was standing next to the wall, the phone slipping from his jittering hands, turning in all directions as he tried to find the reason for the movement. Behind him, the curtains from the breakfast nook continued to flutter about, waving through the air like lacy flags. The cloth cast off an ominous shadow that swelled and receded over and throughout the kitchen with each rise of the curtains, its shady fingers splaying out across the countertops, mimicking human motion.

Bill whipped back around as the telephone clattered to the tile floor, plastic bits and pieces skittering across the tiles. His heart leapt erratically, the anxiety proving to be too much. Tears spilled out over his cheeks once more as he struggled to keep himself standing, just after he had gotten them in check; Bill was panicking, losing control; but even that could not begin to describe what he was feeling, panic was too mild a state in comparison to what he was feeling, to what he was being suffocated with.

He was starting at every single sound, shadow, movement, object… He could not keep going on like this, even he saw this. If his mind was not playing some elaborate game on him, on the off chance that everything that had happened since he had woken up was real, he would not be able to do anything for anyone if he could not even help himself. Bill wrung his hands together nervously, staring down forlornly at the fallen phone. Here he was, crying his eyes out and getting scared senseless by curtains blowing in the wind and counter tops. What good was he to anyone like this?

None.

Bill wiped at his eyes angrily, smudging away the black eye makeup and remaining tears that obscured his sight, along with it wiping away his cowardice – or tried to. He had to be strong – had to! - because only the strong got anything accomplished.

But all he wanted to do was crawl back underneath the table and cry until everything just went away.

A new part of him began to take control, the part of him that knew he had a family to protect, the part of him that knew, as the older brother, he had to go and take care of his baby brothers; the part of him that, as the eldest son, knew he had to go and make sure his parents were alright; the part of him that knew everything was not okay and that he was the only who could do anything about it.

Upstairs, bed springs creaked as weight was shifted. Someone was moving. After all the time that had passed, someone was moving.

In his naïveté, Bill took a step towards the front of the house, out of the kitchen, and opened his mouth, making to call up to whomever it was moving through the house.

"…"

As quickly as he had started though, he caught himself, clapping his hands swiftly and firmly over his mouth, not even daring to breathe.

No chances.

Absolutely no taking of any chances.

Listening intently, he heard footsteps now, concrete movement. They were solid, heavy; Bill was not sure if this was for better or for worse that he could hear this. No one in his house made sounds like that, except maybe his dad. Maybe. The panic that had been slowly ebbing away began to seep back into his mind, more powerful than before. Still no one called down to him, no one made a peep, which the most unnerving part.

Even with this new driving force behind him, he did not know what to do; he did not know where to go. He at least knew one thing that he could not do, and that was just rush up there and hope for the best, because that was purely stupid – things would only end up worse if he did that.

Bill was frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights. Whatever was up there kept moving. His heart was in his throat as he whipped around, searching frantically for anything he could use to protect himself. He zeroed in on the knife block seated on the counter but a few feet away from him. A knife. It would do.

He dove for the block, seizing the first black plastic handle his fingers painfully bumped into. Still struggling to be silent, he ripped the blade out of its slot, not even bothering to look at its size or to check its sharpness, head already twisting around to check behind him. No one – yet.

On the verge of tears again, Bill scrambled for the pantry, praying to god his parents had not blocked off the back stairs that had been there when he was a kid. His socks slid on the tiles and he held onto the knife for dear life and used his other hand to catch himself as he raced into the pantry, careful to shut the slotted doors behind him, his chest heaving.

Bill looked at the sliding glass doors of the kitchen through the slits in the pantry doors as he held his breath fearfully, his hand resting on the pantry's door jamb. Outside, the dark cover of the corn field beckoned to him, tempting him to just abandon what he was doing and to go hide in the corn, saving himself. There he would be safe; there he would have nothing to worry about until the sun came up.

Yet everything in him vied for the pantry, every fiber in his being pulled him further away from those clear doors and back deeper into the house. Bill could not let himself abandon everything now, not when he had finally built up the courage to act. Plus, it was too late now. If he managed to get to the doors he would only be seen and caught as he ran out of them; there was no chance.

Floorboards creaked off in the dining room, heavy steps traversing through the downstairs, casual but slow, wary. Whoever it was was searching, searching for him.

Slices of light slipped through the slots in the pantry doors, falling on the floor in thin patches. Bill dropped to his knees and crawled to the back of the deep pantry, cautiously avoiding all the things that were stacked along the walls and on the floor, his muscles tense as he waited for the door to be ripped open behind him. It did not happen though, and Bill finally reached the approximate area where he thought the semi-hidden door was, where he hoped it would still be. He reached out blindly in the darkness, fingers searching up and down the wall like mad as the footsteps neared the kitchen. His fingernails scrabbled along the grooves in the wall, probing for just one certain one, one groove that sank further than the rest…

The thick soles of heavy shoes thudded on the tile of the kitchen floor as Bill sank his fingernails into the crack in the wall, shoving it open hastily. The shelf backed against it wobbled slowly atop its hooks. There was no time to steady it as the slanted light in the pantry became eclipsed, and Bill crawled under the shelf and into the stairwell beyond, doing his best to ignore the fluttering of his heart as it sped into overdrive. The concealed door was pressed shut steadily but hurriedly and latched from inside. He did not dare to breathe or to blink as he sank against the door soundlessly.

The movement stopped beyond the pantry doors in what he guessed to be a sight of the source of the noise. Bill picked up the soft scrabbling of plastic pieces as the thing beyond the wall grabbed up the broken telephone parts; and then it was silent. Bill turned himself to press his ear against the little door, finally risking a breath to his deprived lungs as the quiet ensued. Was it gone? Testy squeaks assailing his ears as the pantry door knob was turned impatiently by some unknown hand. Bill squeezed his fingers tighter around the knife handle he held, his eyes finally slipping to a close and scrunching shut. No, it was very much still there.

Footsteps, slow and even, sounded in the small, dark pantry as someone entered the space, searching it thoroughly, if the sound of overturning goods was anything to go by. Boxes and crates of fruit were kicked aside carelessly, oranges and grape fruit tumbling about and rolling along the walls. Bill felt the vibrations through his back and butt as he sat there, waiting. The man – Bill assumed gender based on the shape and size of the shadow he had briefly seen - neared the hidden door, but did not perceive it, coming close and then passing by. The shuffling and rummaging continued for a few more brief moments that lasted forever, Bill listening as the man moved from one corner of the pantry to the next, examining every inch but not finding anything.

Then he was gone; as fast as he had arrived he disappeared. Bill could hear him searching the kitchen and then beyond as he looked for the source of the broken telephone but came up with nothing.

Bill's heart thumped against his ribcage, thundering so loud he was shocked no one could hear it. The stairs were gloomier than the rest of the house with no window cut into the stairwell to brighten up the tight corridor. The darkness swallowed everything that he may have found comforting – or at least more terrifying than the numbness crawling over him inch by inch, dragging him down; sound, time, space…

It was the closest he had ever felt to drowning. He was sure it was the exact same.

A soft squelching sound slid up into his ears as his moist palm clutched the knife tighter, the sweaty plastic losing its voice to the blackness. It still felt as though it were slipping from his grip despite his solid hold; the knife playing his mind into imagining it sliding from his grasp, slipping past his groping fingertips and clattering to the ground, but not before falling endlessly in what felt like the black void Bill believed to have consumed him. He could only embrace it to his chest and cling to it with the hope that it would not fall.

Hand over hand, foot after foot, Bill gradually crept up that wooden staircase and managed to avoid all of the steps that would groan under his weight, trying not to slice himself with his own knife as he got closer to the top with each agonizing step; but he felt like he was not moving at all. At this point it was really a question of whether he really even wanted to reach the top, to see what was waiting for him up there.

No, no he really didn't; but yes –so very much – at the same time. Beneath everything he sensed and felt, all the churning anxiety, fear, and dread; the giddiness, jittering, numbness; the nauseating curiosity, queer sense of detachment, and the conflicting crash of each emotion and every sensation an idea was growing; slow, so treacherously slow, and malignant. The idea that he was not okay, that his family was not okay, that _nothing_ was okay anymore had breached his mind and seeded, planting itself deep; and it was corrupting him, Bill could tell. This little germ of fear, of horror, was impairing him and making him imagine horrendous things, see images of absolute abomination.

Bill paused, lowering to a crouch on one of the steps. His hands were shaking, the steel blade trembling against his chest as he pressed it closer to him. Beyond the walls footsteps other than his own tread up stairs other than the ones he was sitting on.

So he kept moving.

Fingers spread over open space – dusty, cool planks – Bill knew he had reached the landing at the top of the staircase. Soundlessly he rose to his knees, the fabric of his bottoms catching on minute splinters as he slid closer to the door. Hands already knowing and remembering what eyes could not see, his fingers ghosted over the thumb-size latch jutting from the wall.

Past the little wall panel lay the closet attached to his room. Beyond that; Bill was not sure that he wanted to know. Unfortunately, every second was critical to him, he at least knew this much; yet he hesitated, his hand resting on the latch, the other flush against his thigh, grasping the knife.

Not giving him the chance to stall any longer, his hand slipped and the latch clicked open hollowly, the panel swinging outwards minutely. It stopped as soon as the carpet in the closet caught on its bottom edge, obstructing its outward swing. He pushed it out further, his sweaty palm slipping down the door a bit as he held his breath, waiting for someone to burst in and discover him. Struggling from disuse, the hinges slowed the door's movement, hindering his advance; but they did not emit the tiniest of squeaks, so Bill did not try to hasten it. Scooting more towards it, he promptly groped for the lip of the panel to stop it before it was pushed out too far, glancing around him vigilantly.

No one.

It held steadfastly, caught in the fibers of the carpet, open enough for him to peek his head through. 'Don't let go of that door!' his subconscious cautioned him, a warning he heeded. Squeezing the edge of the panel with his one free hand, he rose to his feet guardedly. The last thing that he wanted was for the door to collide into something and draw the attention of whomever or whatever was lurking.

Outside the stairwell there was not any more light than his current circumstance, the darkness just as dense, just as unfeeling. However, just beyond shrouds of clothing and boxes of random knick knacks amassed over the years was a thin sliver of blue-ish light, leftover from the glow of the outside through the entrenching windows further on. This lit a path well enough for him through the littered closet, past the rows of hanging garments and around the mounds of those that lacked hangers, among other things.

Just as before, Bill still held the door tightly, more so now that he was trying to weasel his way through the narrow opening. With every fiber of his being he willed it to stay still and to not swing out and hit something, more specifically the clothes rod that hung so near to the wall.

The carpet was a welcome change from the slick, creaky wood flooring. As soon as he pulled himself fully through, the panel was pushed to a close, the resounding click echoing a bit more loudly than he had anticipated. In a few quick strides, he was across the rather large closet and pressed against the wall next to the door that would lead out into his old room

Bill got down on his knees without bumping into anything and looked through the keyhole of the door, but it was too dark to see into the bedroom. As far as he could tell, there was nothing beyond the door or even in the room. He stayed on his knees as he twisted the doorknob apprehensively, opening the door. No one was in the room, it was clear.

Not bothering to get back up, Bill got down on his hands and knees and cautiously crawled into the bedroom, on the lookout for anything that could have been taken as a sign to hide. Other than the pulsating of his heart, the entirety of the house was clouded in silence. He inched towards the bed, not daring to breathe lest he attract unwanted attention. It occurred to him multiple times that just leaving would have been the best option in regards to his own safety, but his actions were automatic, as though he had no control. His rational mind told him to leave, but his instincts told him to stay, to go after his family.

Another strange thought occurred to him then: Through all of this there had been no screams, no sounds at all. Bill shuddered and brushed the thought away. He could not afford to start thinking like that.

His eyes trained on the door to his bedroom, he ran into the side of his bed with a silent _Oomph!_ Blinking furiously, he moved towards the bedside table, all the while not taking his eyes from the door. Behind him a soft skittering sounded as he moved backwards, pieces of something skidding across the wooden floor boards, knocked around by his pant legs.

"…-!" His mouth formed an O of pain as his face pinched together and he finally swiveled around to look at something other than the empty doorway. Poking into the knees of his pants were sharp slivers or what felt like plastic and even more of the jagged pieces littered the floor. Bill winced and plucked them from the leg of his pants, some pricking into his flesh. He held one of the larger ones up to the sparse light filtering in from the window, not quite processing what it was that he had just unwittingly crawled upon. It sparkled darkly, shimmering lightly. Plastic, certainly, because it did not feel dense enough to be glass. Careful to avoid other slivers, he sat back on his haunches, searching for the source of the mess. Just a bit farther from where he sat was a small pile of wires and blocky looking pieces. Bill stared at it dumbfounded, picking up the largest rectangular part and weighing it in his hand.

Outside in the hallway, someone was walking again. Startled, Bill broke out of his daze and clutched the knife to him, silently setting the little rectangular box to the floor. Before he had time to react, the footsteps had already reached the stairs and were descending having not heard him in the bedroom. This was not reassuring to Bill in any way though. He did not remain for an instant longer in his room, there was nothing there to see, nothing to help him.

In the bathroom connected to the bedroom he heard the front door open and then close shortly thereafter. Getting to his feet, Bill waited a moment. Was it really gone? Was it really that simple, that easy? He just left that simply? Everything about the situation did not feel right or comfortable to Bill, but he did not bother to wait any longer. Tucking the blade into the waistband of his pants, he bolted from the bathroom and into the guest bedroom where Andreas was supposed to be, no longer caring how much noise he made.

No sooner had his feet made contact with the bedroom carpeting did he come to a dead stop. Bill had tried to prepare himself for a lot of outcomes, no matter how they may be, but this was not one he anticipated. Bile rose in his throat and his hand migrated to his churning stomach, his other reaching for the wall.

No.

No.

No.

This was not supposed to happen; this was not how it was supposed to be.

He turned around again, trying to hold down the rising mass in his stomach. His lips pursed together, he did not dare to open them for fear of what may come out other than words.

Andreas, poor, poor Andreas. His friend, his absolute closest friend of so many years he could not even begin to remember. He clamped his hand over his mouth, but did not turn away. From across the room he could see that his friend's eyes were still open, wide in frozen fear. Every inch of cloth around him was stained so dark it seemed black.

The gagging finally became too much and the heaving too strong and Bill turned away from the bed as the contents of his stomach emptied itself. It did not stop though, he kept heaving, even when there was nothing left.

Bill wiped his mouth. He could not even look in the direction of the bed; he just could not do it. One quick glance had told him Andreas was not there any longer. His hands rolled into fists.

How had this happened? Why had he not awoken before? Why had no one screamed?

No one had screamed… Bill's breath drew in quick and he dashed from the room. He crashed through into his parents' room, not stopping until he reached the bed. He stood at his father's side and reached down, shaking him by the shoulders hysterically.

"Dad! Please wake up, wake up!" he sobbed. His father did not stir no matter how violently Bill shook him, no matter how long. Having just seen his prone figure, blankets undisturbed and eyes still closed, Bill assumed he was just sleeping. He stopped shaking him, it was to no effect. Only then did he truly take a good look at his father, his face in particular. Everything else was normal enough until Bill saw the way that his nose was almost…shortened - caved into his face, small rivers of blood dried on his upper lip.

Bill recoiled in revulsion, drawing his hands away hurriedly. He stared at them in horror for a long moment, and then looked back down at this father. He was dead, just like Andreas. As soon as his panicked mind processed this, it omitted it from memory, his thoughts moving at the speed of light. The shock had still not set in; all he was seeing did not really click in his mind. His brown eyes roved over his father's still body and then finally up to his mother's side of the bed.

She was not there.

In his mother's place were spatters of gore, more than should have been real. A congealing pool of blood and other tissues that Bill was trying to convince himself were not really there caked that half of the bed, meager little spots reaching as far as where his father lay, speckling him in red. But his mother was not there. Slowly, he traversed the other side of the room, dazedly searching for Simone, but she was not to be seen.

Aghast, Bill stood, staring at the bed paralyzed. He could not move his eyes from the grisly mess. "Mom?..." he all but squeaked, unable to find his voice. There was no response from anywhere in the house, just silence.

"Mom?" Bill called more loudly this time, making himself heard; still there was no reply. His fingers kneaded the cloth of his pants nervously, his body finally twisting around to face the doorway.

Hasan and Carsten.

Bill swallowed thickly, ignoring the dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. No one was monster enough to hurt them. At least that is what he told himself.

Unlike before he did not run to check on them, he shambled along towards their room, one hand glued to the wall so that he might not fall over. Despite everything since coming upstairs, he had not shed a tear, it was all too much. He kept his head down, not daring to look ahead to find what he already knew would be waiting for him; he simply examined the carpet beneath his feet as he walked, constant and tame.

When he reached the room he could not bring himself to lift his eyes. He walked in about a step or two, but then stopped. Bill told himself he was not seeing anything as he looked fixedly at the carpet. Even though his eyes were trained at the floor, he saw everything; and nothing at the same time.

Simone sat slumped against the wall, her eyes glassy and void. She was whiter than Bill had ever seen her in his life, without actually looking at her. Hasan and Carsten were sat on either side of her. Bill retched into his hand, eyes still aimed at the floor, but something other than bile was bubbling inside him. His brothers had no eyes to stare blankly, nor did either of them have a head to hold them in. There was no longer a difference between either of the boys, their faces completely gone. From the shoulders up was nothing but a pulpy disarray, their skulls disintegrated and whatever remained soaking the carpet, splashes of red dyeing the floor just ahead of him. Hasan and Carsten's hands had been interlaced with their mother's where they sat slumped against the wall, an attempt at something picturesque.

He screamed.

Bill sank to his knees in terror, in absolute antipathy, his last bit of resolve, of anything he had left, snapping and letting a slew of irrational emotions flood him as his scream died in his throat, lessening in pitch and volume until it was just moaning. Sobs, rough and biting, tore through him. His arms wrapped tightly around himself and he rocked slowly, back and forth.

And he cried. Not for himself, not for his own safety; not anymore.

"No, no, no, nononononono…" he keened lowly, squeezing his eyes closed against everything around him. Tears cascaded down his cheeks and he held himself, willing it all to go away. But that would have been too uncomplicated.

The front door opened once more and someone came inside.

* * *

The cans had a pleasant weight in Bushido's hands, solid and reassuring. The red color was only a bonus in his opinion, something that passed through his mind as the contents sluiced around within the containers torpidly.

He set one of the cans down next to the door and walked to the back of the house. He had not even tipped the first can over yet and the air already reeked of gasoline. It was a delightful scent, or so he thought. It got the blood pumping.

Bushido began to whistle a soft tune as he tilted the gas can towards the floor, slewing the contents all over the tiles in the kitchen. He hopped down the steps into the breakfast nook and sloshed the liquid onto the table, dousing the tablecloth. He paused in his spreading of the gas and whistling as he came to the back hall. It stretched out darkly in front of him. Was it worth it to go all the way back there? No, not really. He swung the can roughly and projected the gas far across the floor, some reaching the door of the back room, a bit more painting the walls.

To say he was giddy, exuberant even, would be a correct portrayal. His mood had skyrocketed since his arrival and was only getting better. 'Damn,' he thought while he drenched the dining room in gasoline, watching I spill down the sides of the cabinets and the legs of the table, 'If I get any more revved from this, I might just go start buyin' puppies for orphans!'

Bushido stopped for a moment as he thought this, chewing on the thought as he started up another tune. He tossed the can into a corner of the room and just laughed; what a thought! Puppies! _And_ orphans! He was a riot today.

He meandered back towards the front door and swooped up the second can, heftier than the first. Moseying on over to the TV room, he took great pleasure in soaking the sofa with gas, taking time to make sure that each cushion was saturated. Everywhere he went reeked of gasoline, the fumes wafting up and hitting him like a truck. This was his second favorite part of every outing, after the main event of course.

As he walked into the living room, the last room in the front of the house, Bushido caught a glimpse of a corded telephone on one of the end tables. A twisted grin broke out across his face – no one ever had these things anymore and these people had them all over the damn place! Ah, the simple things that amused him.

The can became lighter and lighter as he worked his way through the room, drowning each piece of furniture and every inch of carpet. He slung the liquid up the walls for good measure, watching as it dribbled down. After steeping the last bit of the room, he bent down and cast the last can into the fireplace, listening to it hollowly bounce around a bit before settling amongst the metal grating and ashes. Straightening up, his eyes caught sight of some picture frames lined up along the mantle.

"Let's take a look at the family at their best," he groaned loudly as he stretched his back, popping the vertebrae comfortingly.

Neatly placed, each frame held a different time period in the family's lifetime, going from marriage to not too long ago, at least he assumed. The first picture was of a younger Simone and Gordon on their wedding day; cute. Bushido tipped the frame off the mantle and it shattered on the fireplace. He moved on.

There was one child in the next photo, a baby. The boy he had seen first probably. That picture had the same fate as the last and wound up on the ground in a pile of glass. After that there were three children, one fairly young, the other two just babes. Bushido hated babies. That one ended up in the fireplace alongside the gas can. Lastly was one of the twins about the age they were now, the parents, and the third child – but this child was certainly not the one who had been residing in the guest room.

Bushido plucked the frame from the mantle and held the photograph close to his face, scrutinizing the image. The elder boy looked old enough to be away, making the blonde boy a guest, a distant family member then, most likely. But then where was this boy? Why was he not home with them at this time of year? Bushido thought back to the blue room, and looked back at the boy. They matched in taste. He placed this frame back onto the mantle. If he had been here, he would have been in that room, Bushido concluded, albeit hesitantly. This also brought back to him the incident of the phone in the kitchen. It had been in pieces all over the floor, knocked from its cradle. Of course, this did not mean anything in particular and he was not about to jump to conclusions, but it was still something to think about, something to be wary of. If there was anyone else in the house, he would have found them already.

His guard was up again as he left the living room, digging in his pockets for a match. The merely considering that _he _had missed something was absurd, but it was irking him. He pulled out the book and ripped one of the cardboard strips out, flicking it with his thumbnail. The orange light flared up, devouring the air full of gasoline. It rose up as high as it could, brightening the hallway around him as it burned down the short cardboard stick.

Bushido tossed the match into a puddle further off and watched as the flames shot up the walls.

* * *

When the match lit up, Bill caught his first look of the man who had invaded his house and felt sick with rage, his anger eating him up like the climbing flame absorbing the saturated air. He slipped the knife from the waist of his pants and held it dear, praying for accuracy. If god would give him just one thing, he wished it to be vengeance; just this once.

The final breaking point was the small smile playing across the man's lips as he stared into the flame, his eyes alight with a joy that was nauseating. Bill could take no more. It was disgusting.

Although the man before him was much larger, at least in solidity, Bill did not hesitate long enough to make a plan of how to take him down. The match left the man's fingertips and Bill dove for him, knife held out before him. Unlike before, there was no pause, no plan of action – only reaction. His mind had given way to instinct, throwing out everything else it deemed only to inhibit.

Bushido, having already suspected another presence in the house and eagerly awaiting its unveiling, turned just in time to catch the boy that was hurtling towards him, the creak of traitorous boards betraying his nearness, even with the roar of the fire absorbing everything around them. The skinny thing had more power than he suspected, though, and sliced at his face with a blade he brought up quickly, nicking his cheek and proceeding to bury the kitchen knife into his right shoulder as he covered the boy with his broader frame, using his weight to gain control. Bushido ripped the knife out of the Bill's hands and out of his shoulder and tossed it deep into the already flaming house, pressing the boy into the wall by his face, holding him an arm's length away. He touched the tender flesh of his cheek and pulled his hand away to see his fingers stained a shining red.

"You bitch," he growled, somewhat in disbelief, as he wiped the blood onto his pants and flattened Bill's face against the wall angrily.

Kicking and screaming, Bill spat back, "Fuck you!" He aimed his socked foot for the Bushido's shins, jamming his foot back into them as he tried to get out of his grip. He reached back and clawed at his thick arms, seeking purchase to raze his flesh, ripping at him depravedly. His fingernails sank into tough skin, deeper as he raked them farther down Bushido's arms.

Snarling something unintelligible, Bushido reared back, pulling Bill's head away from the wall abruptly by his hair and smashed it back into the plaster. The force of the hit vibrated up Bushido's arm gratifyingly. The surprise of the impact dislodged Bill's fingernails from his arms. He beat the boy's face further into the wall, the moans spilling out of his lips becoming more muffled and strained.

Bill's hands dropped to his sides, but he was only dazed, a bit disoriented now. A long, pained groan dripped from between his lips, his vision spinning madly. Bill stumbled back against his assailant as he struggled to gain some ground back, but the coordination between his limbs and his mind was scattered. It was funny; people always said that you would see your whole life flash before your eyes when you were dying. So why wasn't he seeing anything? All Bill saw was the wallpaper nearing his face again at a dizzying clip.

Yanking his head back violently one more time, Bushido smashed his face into the wall again. Something cracked, whether it was the plaster or the kid's face, he did not really care. Bushido held his face against the wall for a moment. He unwound his fingers from the black hair at the back of his head and Bill fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, out cold.

Around them the fire roared, gaining speed and devouring the house, already travelling to the upper level. Smoke was beginning to clog the halls, swirling about them in thick tendrils. Bushido covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt and stared down at the boy on the floor.

Yeah, the house was going to cook them both if he didn't hit the road, but now there was a slight hitch in his plans, namely the person he had somehow managed to overlook in his tour of the house. This definitely did not happen often – hell, it had never happened to him before.

But now here he was. Coughing faintly, he quickly glanced around him. It was all going up pretty quick, but he did not know if it was going to come down quick enough. He could leave the kid there and hope that he did not somehow succeed in waking up after getting clobbered into a wall and then escape the burning wreckage; which was a possibility, despite the odds. That was just it though, he was not certain – or at least not certain enough. It was _likely_ that he would just get crisped, but there was the chance that he would somehow make it out…

Spreading flames licked at Bushido's boots, signaling to him that he needed to get out and get out now. Building smoke floated into his tearing eyes. There was no more time.

Heaving the boy up, Bushido threw Bill over his shoulder. No sounds came out of his swollen mouth, not even a groan, but it would not have been heard over the screaming and writhing of the house. Coughing more pronouncedly, Bushido barreled through the door, not daring to stop until he was down the drive.

Then he turned. The sky was lit up with the glow of what could have been an alternative sun. Tips of flames here and there reached for the stars no longer visible with the intensity of the burn. The whole house was up.

Windows blowing out of their panes orchestrated his walk to the truck at the end of the drive, shattering glass highlighting the silent night. He dropped Bill carelessly into the bed of the truck, glancing at him for a moment before climbing into the cab. He was going to be out for a good few hours. The engine rumbled dangerously beneath his feet.

And he started up a tune as he pressed down the road, accented by the collapsing house behind them.

* * *

A/N: Whew, well I am sorry to those of you whom I told the chapter would be up last weekend. I won't even bother with excuses.

So, what did you think? I know, I know, VERY long, but I couldn't split it anymore, this just needed to be done! (This chapter I mean). It was a bit...difficult to write, not quite sure why though. Again, dedicated to my friend Hannah, whom I fear will skin me alive if I do not start making these updates more regular...

The next chapter will be up by the end of January/first week of February, I know this for a fact. (Not that I have given you any reason to ever believe my time frames, haha).


	7. Working Stiff

A/N: Just a short (in comparison to others) chapter, not very exciting, sorry. Hope you still enjoy it though :)

* * *

The detective opened the taxi door and stepped out onto the frosty grass when the foul-smelling stench of gasoline hit him square in the face. Breathing through his mouth, he wrinkled his nose in disgust and peered up the drive at the charred, smoking remains of the once large farmhouse, now all but leveled. Well, that was one mystery solved.

"Hey, mister, that'll be fifty-six bucks even," a scruffy, overweight man said from behind the wheel of the taxi cab.

The detective scratched at the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Fifty-six dollars, really? Shit," he mumbled, fishing for his wallet in the back pocket of his pants. He finally pulled it out and grabbed three twenties from its confines, shoving the bills at the grubby cabbie. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, man," the cabbie said as he tipped his ratty baseball cap in the detective's direction.

It was dreary and cold, just like every other day of that season. He tucked a piece of hair that had escaped his ponytail behind his ear as he tilted up his collar against the chill. Leaves and frozen blades of grass crunched softly under the soles of his shoes as he walked up the yard toward the smoldering home. He himself had never seen it in person, but by the size of the lot he assumed it was nothing less than two stories and 2200 sq. feet; but now it was all gone, a few feet of wall poking out if the ashes here and there, but nothing higher than that.

Ahead he made out a blonde inspector pushing his way through the busied criminologists and policemen still trying to cordon off the scene. The blonde, a head taller than anyone else around, waved obnoxiously at him, a huge grin stretching across his face despite the severity and gloominess of the area.

"Hey! Georg! Man, does Nora have ya whipped or what? I saw that taxi you just got here in," he chuckled, clapping Georg on the back when he finally got to him.

Georg shot a scathing glare at the inspector, his partner of countless years. "Gino, you pulled me out of my daughter's ballet recital for this. I had to take the fucking taxi. I wasn't going to make Nora and Jezabelle walk. You knew I was off the job for today – for the first time in ages – and you had to call _me_ in."

Holding his hands up in front of him defensively, Gino took a short step away, the childish smirk not quite leaving his face all the while. "Hey, hey, hey, we both know that you're the best one for these kinda jobs, that's not my fault. Plus, Jez and Nora are troopers, they won't even notice you're gone," he grinned, holding the file folder out for Georg to peruse.

Georg ripped the file from the other inspector's hand, angry but relenting. "That would be the problem, Gino; that would be the problem." He flipped the folder open as they stood before the smoldering farmhouse, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth and nose from the lingering fumes that rode along the frigid breeze. Clipped to the top of all the papers was an enlarged polaroid of the house that used to stand on the grounds, large, intimidating almost, but homey – at least from what he could judge by the exterior photograph. A few more polaroids were attached to the file, pictures of the house from different angles, different times of year as people came by to appraise it.

His eyes travelled to the smoking ruins that resembled a fiery pit more than a home.

How did something so big and seemingly solid go up that easily?

"So what exactly happened here?" Georg asked, splitting his attention between the reading and his partner. The next couple pages of the file consisted of floor plans and material relative to the information the fire department would have needed – regular tests conducted on the wiring and electrical aspects of the house, documents on the plumbing and state of the lot – nothing that held any particular interest for him.

"Well, obviously there was a fire." Georg shot him a look, but Gino continued, "And, considering the fact that we were both called here, homicide."

"Who?"

"Well if ya read the briefing I so painstakingly worked on for-"

'Who, Gino?"

"Two children, three adults – Hasan and Carsten Trumper aged twelve, Simone Trumper aged 43, and Gordon Trumper aged 42. The third body hasn't been identified yet, but from what is known of the family it is likely that it is the third son, a," Gino grabbed the folder from Georg's hands and flipped a few pages further in, "-a Bill Trumper, aged 21," he paused for a moment, "Of course, ya know that all of that anyway is just us assumin' their identities, the coroner didn't get here much before ya, so we still gotta wait on her to know anything for sure." He passed the folder back, his face taking on a more somber countenance as his gaze travelled towards the house where they will still searching for remains.

Georg did not bother to reopen the file, he had heard all that he needed until the coroner's reports came back and they had something to go off of. Pulling some latex gloves out of the pocket of his trench coat, he tucked the file under his arm and strode up to the house, making his way underneath another strip of caution tape and past a few more cops simply standing guard.

"Did the fire marshal disclose the source of the fire yet, or no?" Georg called back at Gino who was making his way up more slowly.

Gino replied, "Eh, not officially, but the cause is pretty obvious. I mean, even I guessed as much by just givin' the place a once over." Closing the last few feet between them with quick strides, he pulled on gloves of his own and knelt down beside what might have been the front door at one time, gesturing Georg over. "Look here at this." He pointed towards a red rectangle melted into the ground.

"You show that to the marshal?" Georg shook his head before his partner even had time to respond, "Never mind, doesn't matter. How many of them did you find?"

Gino held up four fingers as he jumped up, working his way through the rest of the scene to show Georg the others.

"Have to love arson. When did the fire department respond to this?" Georg asked absently, scrutinizing the floor for anything that could assist them. It was already getting dark, the days growing shorter and shorter.

Looking for something to lean against and finding nothing, Gino crossed his long arms over his chest and sighed, "They didn't."

Georg looked up at him from where he was kneeling on the ground, motioning for him to elaborate.

"By the time anyone noticed the fire, it was all burnt out; the entire house was gone. Somebody drivin' by called the police station late this morning," he pulled a steno pad out of the pocket of his jacket and flipped it open. "Yeah, the person that called it in thought it was some sorta demolition thing goin' on, didn't know it was a real fire – not that it woulda made a dif'rence, 'cause the house was leveled by that time anyway," he trailed off at the end, his gaze growing distant as he looked out across the fields surrounding the house.

'No, it wouldn't have made a difference,' Georg thought, rubbing some ash between his gloved fingers. He blinked wearily, looking up and down the charred hallway they were in. A rocket scientist didn't need to tell him that everything they knew so far – the _little _that they knew so far was pointing towards something sinister; something the likes of which the fire marshal's report wouldn't put a dent in.

Georg stood up and slipped off his gloves. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The scent of formaldehyde was thick in the frigid air as Georg and Gino stepped away from the last bit of humanity and into the dungeon-esque coroner's office. Taking up the lowest subterranean level of the county health building, the office and workplace of Natalie Franz M.D. was cold to say the least - not only in temperature, but also in appearance. The walls, when not made up of shiny metal doors leading into dark freezers better left unopened or lined with shelf upon shelf of instruments dating back to medieval torture periods or flasks of unsightly substances, they were made up of faded tea green blocks, only succeeding in making the place more monotonous.

Georg hated each and every time he needed to come down here – it was life sucking.

"Natalie~" Gino called, his voice echoing off the cave-like walls as he peered around the first doorjamb, searching for the elusive pathologist.

"Yeeesss?~" a cutesy girl's voice answered, the source of it rolling out of one of the rooms further down the corridor on a plush office chair. The smile already on her pale face widened when she saw Georg and Gino and she hopped out of her chair and kicked it back into what Georg presumed to be her office. "My two favorite detectives!" she gushed, the smile lighting up her entire face.

How she could be so cheerful in a place like this, Georg had no idea.

But she was, always had been, and Georg would be loath to say that it did not help to have at least one person always looking on the bright side of things with the job description they had. It got old fast when everyone really let the job get to them.

"What can I do for you today, boys?" she asked with that award-winning smile. Before they had the chance to answer, she was already off in another room, rifling through mounds of paper and dozens of files. "Let me guess…" she pursed her lips as she pulled one particularly large folder from atop the others, flipping through it momentarily before spreading it out atop a desk, taking a moment longer to read it.

Instead of moving to hand them the file, she closed it and placed it on a far corner of the desk from Georg and Gino stood. Her normal, cheery smile was no longer on her face, replaced by a rather more pensive stare. She nibbled on her bottom lip for a moment, before finally saying, "I think it might be better for you to see this for yourselves." She ushered them into another room. The lightness of the atmosphere drained quickly as Natalie took on a more serious demeanor, Georg noticed. Even Gino had lost his buoyant disposition.

"…It's not unusual, given the case of arson along with it – which was probably used to cover up the murders-"

"So they were killed before the fire? You're sure?" Georg questioned, taking a step back as she made her way towards the wall of heavy, metal doors, her heels clicking hollowly on the linoleum floor.

She nodded slowly, pausing for a moment to think of what exactly she wanted to say next. "Quite. It is the animosity in which these victims were slain," Georg noted her choice of words as she spoke, "that, well…" She turned her back to the detectives and opened the latch, swinging the door open and rolling the first table out. "See for yourself."

* * *

The dim light cast by his headlights splashed across the gravel road in front of him, lighting not much more than ten feet before the car. The moon wasn't out, and despite being in the countryside there weren't many stars to speak of. There wasn't much of anything, for that matter.

It was late; he was tired - beyond tired, if that were possible. Georg rubbed his calloused hand across his face, trying to keep his eyes open as he drove. Not that he could have fallen asleep if he wanted to, not after today.

After leaving the morgue earlier, all he had wanted to do was get home. He didn't want to think about the case, he didn't even want to work it. In fact, that was his first thought, dropping the investigation, giving it to someone else based on conflict of interest. He didn't have one especially, but he would come up with something; he just couldn't work this one.

Yet when he had gotten home, kissed his wife, hugged his baby girl – it was all wrong. Everything was wrong. When he looked at Jez, flashes of burnt bodies filled his mind's eye – headless, charred, crumpled children. Children that could have been his own.

And then he would look at Nora, and instead of seeing his gorgeous wife, he only saw death, blackened, burning death; and he couldn't prevent it, he couldn't save her, he couldn't save either of them.

Georg pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking the images from his head. That was why he had left, why he was driving now. His mind was far too gone with this case, he couldn't let it sit for someone else to pick up; but what his mind was really telling him by this realization was that he couldn't let it happen again.

He knew his partner felt the same way. Gino, even though he had seen the bodies briefly at the scene, even though they both had had an inkling that what they were dealing with would not be some run of the mill arson case, had been shaken up pretty bad. Georg knew that Gino would stick by him, that the both of them would not let this bastard, whoever he was, get away with anything like this – now or again.

Before he even realized where he was, Georg pulled up into the long, winding drive of the Trumper home – or what was left of it. Everyone else who had been there earlier had left for the night, as soon as the temperature had dropped that much more and the light completely faded from the bleak skies. He parked the car and turned off the lights, but didn't get out. He sat there, soaking in the still air, watching the darkness.

Georg finally put his head in his hands, wisps of brown hair falling around his face as they escaped his ponytail. Why was he here? What did he honestly expect to find so late at night, when it was so dark? Surely there was nothing left to uncover that someone else sifting through the havoc, through all the charred remnants of the house, hadn't already found. Yet, knowing this, he didn't turn around, didn't drive away and leave the place for tomorrow when there would be light. He started his car up again and angled it so it pointed at where the house used to stand, turning on his brights as he got out.

'This is damn foolish,' he thought, pulling a penlight from his pocket and a latex glove for one hand. Damn foolish.

He started in what he thought may have been a family room, stepping over the remains of the outer wall and into the house. The headlights behind him cast his shadow deep into the house, contorting and distorting all of the shadows already there. He squinted as he turned on the penlight, the thin glare hardly helping him to see at all.

'Damnit, Georg, what do you expect to find here?' he thought with agitation, scouring the ground with his eyes as he moved further in. The deeper he got in the house, the less light the car provided him, causing him to rely more and more on the little penlight in his hand. He just squinted more and kept going, hoping to find something useful.

His whole little mission was proving useless though as more time passed. Fifteen minutes, thirty, an hour. Georg glanced at his watch – 1:36. Not the latest of nights, he would admit, but one of the most fruitless. He dropped down to his haunches and rested his chin in his ungloved hand, flicking the light around randomly. Clearly the team had done a thorough job earlier, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. But it meant he had wasted his time, time better spent elsewhere.

Georg sighed, his breath turning a misty white as soon as it left his lips. He raked his fingers through his hair. It was cold, it was late – it was time to go home. He stood up wearily, his knees popping as he stretched to his full height. Then something flashed at the edge of his vision. He stopped, mid-stretch, and spun around, thinking it might be a person coming up on the house. Georg waved his small light around the open space, trying to catch whatever he had just seen.

"Is anybody out there?" he yelled, flashing his light over the lawn still. "Police!"

There was no noise though, other than his own movements and breathing. His hand fell to his side where his gun rested on his hip. A few more minutes passed and no one appeared. Staying alert, he flashed the light at the ground this time, sifting the light through the ashes slowly to see if what had caught the light would once more.

Against the remnants of a wall, something glimmered under the light of his penlight. Curiously, he shifted the light into his ungloved hand and crouched down beside the wall. With a gloved finger, Georg poked the ash surrounding the shining object, uncovering it with care. Beneath all of the soot lay a blade, the plastic handle melted to the floor, the blade dirtied with ash but otherwise unharmed by the fire. Careful not to break it, Georg pried the knife up from the floor and held it by the melted handle in the little light given by his penlight.

The tip of the blade was darker and dirtier than the rest, bits of hardened dirt flaking off of it in chunks. Georg rested the light on his knee and ripped out another glove, using it to hold the knife while he chipped off a bit of dirt with his other hand. Setting the knife down again, he rubbed the small chunk between his forefinger and thumb until it was powder and held it up to the light.

It was not dirt.

Georg jumped up and ran to his car, popping the trunk and ripping out an evidence bag, pulling the second glove on as he went. Tearing the bag open, he bolted back into the house and found the blade again, this time in a matter of seconds. Painstakingly careful not to crack off anymore of the substance baked on the tip of the knife, he dropped it into the clear bag and sealed it tight.

He held it up in front of his eyes, facing the headlight beams of his car.

"I think there's something here that we might be missing. Something big."

* * *

A/N: New character/s! Yay? I think so, considering that almost everyone else died XD Anywho, next chapter will be Bill (Sorry, I just brought him in again and then take him out for this chapter ._.)

And I know a lot/most of you guys are itching to see Tom come in/wondering how the hell he is even going to fit in - well fear not, his debut shall be soon! I am still on the fence with two different ways I want his entrance to play out, and both are kind of extremely important to the end of the story, so I gotta work on that one, but it will still be a few chapters either way, soooo... Back to writing!


	8. Small Hours

A/N: Sorry for the wait, everyone. I must say, thank you all so very much for the reviews, they really kept me going with this and gave me the motivation to finish this up.

WARNING: Non-con/Rape

* * *

The rumbling and vibrating of the surface beneath him was what finally brought him to waking. Slow, gentle rocking punctuated by the occasional bump or rupture in the motion – it was distracting at best, keeping his thoughts fuzzed, incoherent. So he lay there for a moment, perhaps a few, on the brink of cognizance, motionless, quiet.

A violent jolt breaking the swaying motion pushed him out of slumber entirely – he gasped, breathless, as consciousness hit him – hit him hard - and he shot up from where he was lying, panting madly as though he had just breeched the surface of a large lake after having been held for eternity just beneath the foamy water's edge. The sweeping gulps of air burned him, from his dry, cracking lips deep into his aching, starving lungs; so painful and so shocking, the air stopped rushing in and instead flew out in moist hacks that wracked his entire body, echoing disgustingly off the walls of wherever he was. His thin arms tried to wrap protectively around his middle to calm himself, but they couldn't. He couldn't bring them to part. He was gasping again, unable to get enough air between fits of coughing. His lungs were ablaze with a fire only he could feel, in which only he would suffer. He felt like he was dying, like he was drowning. So. Painful.

And then he threw up – he leaned over and the contents of his stomach spilled out of his mouth and dripped to the floor below him. The bile burned all the way up his esophagus, but the hacking stopped and his breathing slowed; panicked gasping became exhausted panting became shaky, soft breaths. He sat back, springs squeaking beneath him as he maneuvered himself.

The rocking beneath him continued rhythmically, now accompanied by a lulling hum as his ears opened up to the outside beyond his dreaming. It was familiar, nothing that he hadn't felt before. 'It's like rolling' he thought as the mindless sway was broken every so often and he was jounced about when bumps came along. His brow creased at the thought. He _was_ moving.

Another lurch in the movement brought it to him, told him what it was; an engine. He was driving – no, riding. Springs squeaked under him as he moved again, screeching shrilly under his shifting weight. Where, though? In what?

He turned his head to the side, then to the other; but he could not see anything, everything was pitch black. He tried blinking his eyes to clear his vision, but to no avail – he could not even open them. Choking down an irrational sob, he lifted a hand to touch his face, but the resounding chink of metal stopped its ascent. He set his hand back in his lap and felt for his other wrist blindly, fingers coming to caress a thick metal ring, cool to the touch.

His hands were bound; and he could not see.

His chest tightened, his breathing quickened again. 'No, no, no!' his subconscious screamed at him. 'No! Bill! Stop! Just stop. First, why can't you see? One thing at a time, go slowly, don't panic.'

That was easier said than done though. Everything felt like it was crashing down upon him, his entire world. His heart was galloping as he tried to remember something, anything at all. He could already feel another attack coming as the panic in him raced through his veins and encased his brain. He shook his hands, wrenching them apart in a futile attempt to get free of the cuffs binding them. The room filled with the sound of jangling metal, clanking when his wrists smashed together.

'Stop!' The rational part of his mind was slowly kicking in, slashing away at the panic to gain control.

Bill froze, his hands held out before him, his eyes still unseeing.

'Obviously you aren't going to get your hands free, so stop with that,' the voice started exasperatedly, a minor calm trickling through his mind as the voice got louder in his head. The tension in his chest lessened – did not disappear, but it became bearable, the air became breathable. His hands fell into his lap, the soft flannel of his pajama bottoms whispering against the harsh steel encircling his wrists.

The man… That man from before. In his house…he had been alone, no one else around; and everything had been quiet, so, so quiet… Bill sobbed thickly, the darkness in his mind giving way to his friend staring blankly at the ceiling, at him, his dad lying so still on his dirtied bed, his mother slumped against the wall, his brothers strewn across the floor carelessly; none of them moving, none of them breathing – then _his_ dark face surfaced in his head, blacks eyes glinting hatefully as the match lit, crackling in his large hands; smile alight and only growing wider as the corner of his mouth twisted up maliciously; and fire, fire everywhere, scorching his skin, singing his hair- And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. It stopped there, the memory; he did not know where he was… But he knew how he had gotten there.

Bill tried desperately to open his eyes again, squeezing them tight, scrunching his whole face in an attempt to get his eyelids to lift up. His chest ached frenziedly, his heart felt as though it were dying slowly within him. His breaths came shakily, uneven. The thoughts of his family were chased hastily by a small, timid voice in his head, child-like, scared.

_Am I going to die?_

Almost automatically, Bill's mind wiped itself of all thoughts and he sat there blankly, unable to think or move. Was he going to die? Was that what was left for him? It was funny; this was nothing like what he had grown to know since he was a child. His life was not flashing before his eyes; in fact, he could not even bring up a single good memory, not one. He was not having visions of what his life could have been or would have been – he was just scared, terrified beyond belief, into numbness that was swallowing him whole. His head dropped a little, his chin close to his chest. This was not what he wanted to be thinking, what he wanted to be feeling.

Tentatively, Bill raised both hands up to his face. His fingers shook despite his attempts to steady them. Delicately, the tips of his nails brushed the edge of his jaw, whispering across the soft skin there. They danced over the splits in his plush lips and the dried, flaky rivers of blood just above. He winced as they came to the contours of his cheeks, a dull throbbing pain following the trails of his trembling fingers. His hands came together to cup his nose, but did not touch it. Without even touching it, he could feel a feverish heat radiating up into the palms of his hands from his nose. Bill was afraid; he would be lying if he thought otherwise. Was it broken? How would he even fix that? Could he? Bill took a deep breath and held it, bringing his fingers closer together until they were molded around his nose.

The moment his fingers brushed the contused skin, he jerked his hands back with a silent gasp. His hands balled into fists and he bit down onto his tongue for a second, working to withhold everything he wanted to yell out. "Fuck!" he breathed, his whole face throbbing angrily. But his nose had at least been straight, he knew that much. Broken or not, it was straight. Funny, the things he worried about at a time when it was all so trivial.

Bill took another deep breath and lifted his fingers to his eyes. They fluttered gingerly over swollen, bruised skin, eyelashes caked together and to his cheeks, chunks of crusted blood, so thick his lids were glued shut. Frantic, Bill rubbed at his eyes, picked at them. He could feel the congealed blood tumbling down his face in minute crumbles, dusting his cheeks thickly. One eye cracked open, and then another, wide as though he were just waking from a long slumber.

At first he saw nothing but spots – purple, yellow, blue, red – everywhere, dotting his entire field of vision. They shined bright, then brighter as he tried to blink them away. As bright as they became, they did nothing to help the darkness engulfing him as before, heavily accompanied by the lull of the rolling tires beneath him and the droning engine. He swooned, tired suddenly. Bill put his hands down to the side, resting his weight upon his arms to steady himself. Looking down, he figured the obvious and found himself on a bed, a large bed. When the spots began to lessen, he swiveled around on the mattress. Even in the darkness of the room, he could see dark splotches on the sheets, spots darker than the sheets actually were themselves – places where he had been lying. A wracking shudder coursed up his spine and he turned away, looking back in the direction of before.

The room, as far as he could tell, was fairly nondescript. The floor below him was a sea of deep, outdated shag carpeting, and the walls were plain, no pictures, patterned wallpaper, nothing. The far wall held two doors, one sliding, the other not. He assumed the sliding door led to a small closet accompanying the bedroom of sorts that he was in. Across from him was a squat bureau, above which hung a small mirror; beside where he sat was a small night table, but nothing was atop either. In fact, nothing smaller than the night stand was in the room, nothing he could easily pick up or use as a…

Bill squeezed his eyes shut; his head was throbbing wickedly. His teeth ground together and he gripped the edge of the mattress, sheets bunching in his fingers. As nice a thought as it was to lie back and pass out again (his hope was eternally this time around), Bill's options were slim and only lessening, and inaction was not one of them, never had been.

Another particularly rough spot in the gentle rolling motion pushed Bill down mercilessly onto his side, his elbow digging deep into the hard mattress. His teeth clamped down on his tongue sharply as his jaw collided with his arm, his teeth clacking loudly. "Nhh!" he cried out, his voice muffled by the thin sheets on the bed. The faint taste of salt and metal invaded his mouth and he swallowed thickly, trying to ignore it. Pained and wary, Bill sat up again, this time holding himself up with his arms. He must have been in a mobile home, or an RV, or something of the sort; that was the only thing he could think of that would explain a moving room. That and he could hear it, the engine, the wind beating against the walls caging him; but knowing this did not really do anything to improve his situation, he still did not know where he was, or where he was going.

Bill knew that he needed to find these things out. Quickly. Uneasily, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, surprised to find them unbound as his feet sank freely into the plush carpet. His eyes finally opened once more, uncertainty causing him to want to only snap them back shut. He stared down at his feet, not finding any comfort in even this familiarity. His left sock was missing and this only seemed to disturb him more as his toes sank into the shag carpet; that he had lost something else wrenched at his heart, terrifying him. Bill's weary eyes welled with tears he thought he no longer had or could spare and he averted his gaze, seeking solace of some form, but finding none. Aside from the clothes still barely on his back and the lone sock around his foot, everything was alien to him; nothing was familiar in the sense that would help him.

Careful to avoid the mess he had left on the floor just earlier, Bill stood on shaky legs, digging his toes into the carpet as blood rushed back into his lower extremities. He did not bother to wait for the feeling to fully return to his legs before stumbling forward, imaginary pins and needles poking dully at the soles of his feet and at his calves. The control he had was sporadic, his movements jumpy and not getting any more fluid as the floor beneath him jerked and jounced. Across the small room the two sets of doors stood closed, tempting him with their offers of freedom – or at least a chance.

That was another thing that had Bill confused, that he could not seem to get straight in his fuddled mind. What _was _he up against? The pulsating pain in his face and the sting of the cuffs digging into the soft flesh of his wrists led him to believe it was something he did not want to face, a rather obvious conclusion. Everything that he could remember only served to make him angry, but not enough to lash out, because it mostly made him fearful, petrified - none of which were of any use to him. Each time he thought back to the man in his memories, the man he could only assume had bound him and left him here, shadows overtook his features, everything but his eyes. Bill could see his eyes; they glowed white hot into his very soul, devouring him without so much as a single touch or stir.

Another bump ruptured Bill's thoughts, knocking him from his feet and sending him sprawling forward. His bound hands shot out straight in front of him and he grasped the air blindly for something to catch his fall. Bill's hands slammed into the large bureau and his long nails scrabbled across the wooden surface until he finally caught himself barely in time to keep from falling to the ground, his legs spread awkwardly as he supported himself on the dresser. He winced as the cuffs around his wrists dug deeper into his flesh, the chain connecting them stretched tight. Holding himself up on the dresser, Bill walked his feet together until he was standing before the squat bureau.

Bill's eyes widened. Mounted above the bureau was a mirror, rectangular in shape, cloudy in the darkness of the room. He leaned closer towards it, perhaps in an attempt to get a more clear view, but what he had initially seen only worsened as his face got closer to the glass. The image that was reflected back to Bill was not of someone that himself, let alone anyone that he remotely recognized. He raised both hands towards his face and the reflection did the same, no pause at all between his movements and those of the reflection. Bill froze and the image did the same. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes in hope that what he was seeing was just obscured to him somehow, in some way.

The image remained the same.

Looking back at him from the other side of the mirror was a monster, not himself, in no way himself. Bill touched his contused cheek softly, purple, mottled skin peeking up at him from beneath flaky rivers of blackened blood. His cheeks were puffy and swollen, the bones beneath hardly visible under the swelling. Behind split, battered lips his teeth remained intact, surprisingly – although that seemed to be the only thing. His eyes were wild, shining madly from within the mess of his face. They were bloodshot, tired, but at the same time frenzied like a caged animal's. It scared him.

Bill's hands traversed farther up, flitting across crusty eyebrows. He paused momentarily, thumbing his right eyebrow gently. The ring was gone. In its place was a deep gouge running through the brow splitting it in two. The part of his face that seemed to have taken the brunt of the beating he had evidently taken was his forehead. Across the length of his forehead ran a jagged outcropping of skin, smeared completely in maroon and black, flaking in some areas. Warm, fresh blood oozed from between the cracks in the forming scab, the small droplets rolling slowly over older trails already formed by previous blood flow. Bill stroked his forehead gingerly, watching as specks of dried blood fluttered down to the bureau below, dusting its shiny top.

His face was not his own, at least not anymore. The disbelieving gape that adorned both his face and the reflection's morphed into a look far more pained, far more distressed. His eyes scrunched together and he could feel the taught skin of his forehead break a bit under the strain. But the tears did not come.

An anguished moan slipped past his swollen lips as he turned away from the mirror. He did not want to look any longer, did not think he could. Again he tried to wrap his arms around himself, yet the handcuffs only jingled loudly in a defying response. A scream bubbled up in his throat, scratching at his tongue and mouth to just open up, but Bill knew he couldn't release it, no matter how badly he wanted to.

Bill pushed himself away from the bureau furiously, the anger he had been looking for finally building up and coursing through him in boiling, fatal waves. Where sadness had been, anger replaced, washing through him entirely and wholly.

Leery of squeaks in the floor, Bill tread cautiously, yet purposefully, across the deep sea of carpet to where a window lay behind billowy curtains. Glancing quickly at the door, Bill ripped the curtains aside, only to find boards of thick, heavy wood crisscrossed over the window, peeps of passing light only barely squeaking into the room between them. However, this did not deter him as he hooked his fingers beneath one of the many boards and yanked at it. The board did not budge or even yield in the slightest as he pulled again, and again, and again. The ferocity he had been feeling was dwindling into something more along the lines of hysteria as each tug demonstrated less drive than the last.

Abruptly, Bill stopped cold. Something had changed all of a sudden, he noted, his arms outstretched mid-wrench. The rocking had stopped. No, no it hadn't yet – but it was slowing and only getting slower with each passing second. His knuckles whitened around the wooden boards. Were they stopping?

Bill jumped back away from the window and flew across the room frantically. Had he been heard? Did he know he was awake? Bill ran towards the door he thought led to a closet and yanked at the handle, trying to slide the panel open. The door swung outwards at him towards the bottom creaked on its sliding wheels, but otherwise did not budge, latched tight by a lock he had not seen. The RV was rolling to a stop.

Grinding his teeth together in frustration, he dashed towards the other door; maybe he had been wrong in assuming. He stumbled momentarily, tripping over his feet in his haste, but managed to keep his balance as he dropped to his haunches in front of the little door knob. Without the whooshing sound of the air beating against the metal sides of the RV or the steady zoom of passing cars, the silence hanging over the vehicle was overwhelming. Careful not to rustle his cuffs, Bill wrapped his hands gingerly around the cool, metal knob and twisted it to the right. It did not move. He tried again, this time to the left. Nothing.

He jumped up, spinning about madly as he tried to find somewhere to hide, some way to get out. The vibrations of the engine died beneath his feet, they were completely stopped. The lack of light from between the tiny cracks in the boards on the window told him they were alone, that no one was around; no one would hear him scream. Staving off the tears burning at the corners of his eyes, Bill finally slipped silently across the plush carpeting back towards the bed in the middle of the room. Gagging silently, but knowing he had no other choice or the time to form another plan, he lay back in the formation his own blood had outlined for him and squeezed his eyes shut.

Just beyond the final barrier holding him in, but also keeping his monster out, Bill heard keys jingling and scratching around the doorknob in search of the keyhole. His chest hitched in a final, dry sob. It took everything he had to keep still, and even then it was not enough.

The doorknob screeched metallically as it twisted open; the door swung in silently on well-oiled hinges. Then it was silent, no one entered. Bill strained his ears to hear, but there was no sound, no movement. He was faced opposite the door, so even if he had dared open his eyes for a second, he would have seen nothing.

Bill could feel eyes on him, appraising him hungrily. He bit down on his tongue to keep from flinching, from cringing. Finally, he heard footsteps; boots whispered through the dense carpet and a more substantial weight than his own made the floor creak ominously. The steps were slow, thoughtful almost, and Bill could feel warm blood pool around his teeth as an overwhelming taste of salt and iron invaded his mouth. He bit harder on his tongue as the man got closer.

His stomach clenched as he felt a hand on his thigh, and he couldn't hold it back any longer; a thin shudder coursed through him, head to toe, and it did not go unnoticed. A deft hand wound through his hair and pulled him up by it. Bill squeezed his eyes shut tighter, not daring to open them. He did not even utter a squeak as each strand of hair in his head felt like it was going to be ripped out. Hot, putrid breath wafted over his face and he did not venture to breath. Bill tried to turn his face away.

"Rest well, Sleeping Beauty?" A hand came up and grasped him tightly about the chin, jerking his face straight forward to be met by another gust of humid air. Bill's eyes only wrenched together tighter and he remained unresponsive.

They remained there for a moment like that, Bill held up into a kneeling stance on the bed by his hair, his chin held tightly in a rough, calloused hand; Bushido stood over him, twisting the black hair taut around his fingers.

"What's your name, boy?" Bushido asked, his fingers digging deeper into Bill's cheeks and jaw as his grip on his tightened.

Bill could feel the splits in his lips cracking open again under the breaking grasp of his captor's hand. He did not respond.

Bushido leaned in closer to him, their foreheads almost meeting. "What was that, boy? I couldn't hear you."

There was still no response.

He shook Bill's head back and forth in short, jerking motions. "Oh, you don't want to tell me? Shame, I think we could'a been the best of friends," Bushido sneered, his eyes flashing. The hand holding Bill's hair loosened and he felt a soft, demeaning pat atop his head before the same hand moved to his throat. "It's a good thing I don't need your name for this."

Bill's eyes shot open when the bed crashed up to meet his back. A heavy weight rested between his legs on the mattress and he finally opened his mouth. "No…" At first it was a whisper. A dark face leaned over his own and the foreign weight shifted from the mattress to on top of him. "No," he said again, louder this time, his eyes widening in realization. The hand on his neck remained, pushing him further into the mattress, but the other was travelling along the length of his body; deft fingers slid across the thin fabric of his t-shirt, digging into the grooves between his ribs with each pass. He didn't hear him or ignored him – it didn't matter, because he was not stopping. Bill shook in terror beneath Bushido's leering grin - he couldn't move. In his head, the thoughts were crystal clear, his plans defined and complete – but he could not act on any of them. He could hear his pleas in his mind, could imagine them spilling forth from behind his split lips; yet each word he uttered was unarticulated and only came out in labored wheezes.

"You're gonna like this one, princess," Bushido drawled, his fingers slipping lower across Bill's stomach to the waistband of his pajama pants. Bushido tightened his hand around Bill's neck, soaking in the sounds of the boy's faint wheezing. His fingernails scraped at the taut skin of Bill's exposed stomach as he curled his fingers under the waistband of his pants.

That was Bill's breaking point.

"No!" he shrieked, his paralysis breaking away as he thrashed wildly beneath Bushido. "Get off me!" The words he had been building spewed forth and his hands came up, shoving at Bushido's muscled chest. He was not going to stand by and become a viewer in his own torture, he refused. Arching his fingers, Bill drove his manicured claws straight at his captor's face, digging into the flesh and raking downwards with all he was worth.

This brought out a reaction from Bushido. The grin on his face twisted hideously and a vicious snarl ripped through his throat. His eyes burned with rage and before Bill knew what was happening, a sharp _CRACK_ resonated through the room. Bill's hands dropped to his chest and his vision flickered, tunneling darkly. Pain blossomed in Bill's face, radiating from his cheek bone and pulsating all the way through his scalp to his neck. Tears pricked at the corners of his vision, but did not fall. His jaw trembled uncontrollably and even this small movement was unbearably painful. He could not breathe and it felt like his heart had stopped, as though it had just popped as soon as Bushido's fist had connected with his cheek.

Bushido flexed his fingers, moving away from Bill's face. The brunette was staring wide-eyed, blankly at the wall, his head turned sharply and his mouth agape. That took the fight right out of him. "Do you know what happens to boys who play with fire?" he asked, sitting up and cracking his knuckles. He paused and looked down expectantly at Bill, even though he knew the boy was loathe to answer. He grimaced, his eyes fiery. Bushido's voice was laced with malice as he answered himself, "They get burned," every word clipped and cutting. Pulling his fingers away from his own face, Bushido was not surprised to see the tips shine red with blood. The little bitch had cut him. "Seems like you have some nasty claws, kitty," he growled, wiping the blood off his fingers onto the sheets on the bed. He reached down and tipped Bills face up so that he was staring straight into his brown eyes. "I think we might have to fix that."

A few stray tears broke free and rolled down the sides of Bill's face, sticking in his hair. Bushido seized his limp hands, pulling them up harshly. Bill did not – could not – resist. Fingering the first of Bill's French tips, Bushido tugged at it softly, testing it.

"Looks like these won't come off too easy." With that he ripped the nail off. Searing, aching pain shot from Bill's fingertip down into his wrist. A soft gasp broke his bubble of silence and a few more tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as his back arched softly in surprise. Just as quickly, the man above him tore off another one, taking the nail beneath with it, tearing away skin around his nail bed. He could feel little rivulets of blood trickle down his fingers and the back of his hands, following lazily after each jolt of white hot pain.

But he did not scream, he would not scream – he would not give this man the pleasure of his pain. Bill clenched his eyes shut, screaming inside his head as each nail was ripped away, shreds of skin taken with them. Searing heat pulsated through his fingers making them throb angrily – but he still did not scream. His hands were dropped back to his chest, bloody, mangled messes, and he did not scream. Even his tears had stopped.

"And now, kitty, you have claws no more." Bushido sneered, his white teeth flashing. He gripped Bill's hips and flipped him over onto his stomach in the blink of an eye, pressing his face into the mattress and wrapping an arm around his waist to angle him up.

Bill's eyes sprung open. _No, no, no! _his mind screeched. Despite the throbbing, burning ache in his fingers, he clawed helplessly at the arm around his waist and tore at the sheets, trying to get some kind of leverage to pull himself away. Bushido held him tight, though, his hold not wavering for a second. Bill was sobbing now, all pride or defiance he had left withered and died away, leaving him terrified and defenseless. "N-no!" he cried, tears he thought had dried up flowing freely from his tired eyes. "P-p-lease, no! S-st-st-stop!" he bawled, still trying to pull himself away while behind him he could hear the metal of a belt buckle clinking open and the mechanical snarl of zipper being pulled down.

He laughed. Bushido laughed at each plea the boy managed to force out between his wracking sobs, at each hitch of his shoulders under the force of his own hysteria. He was getting too much fun out of this. Bushido trailed his fingers down the brunette's trembling spine, pressing down on each protruding vertebrae until he reached the hem of his thin shirt. For the second time that night, his fingers curled under the waistband of Bill's pants, this time hooking onto them and yanking them down his shaking, pale white legs in one fell swoop. Bill sobbed harder as his boxers were pulled away to pool at his bent knees.

The hand ran back up his spine and wound itself in the black hair at the base of his neck, shoving his head down into the mattress. Bill's sobs became muffled and raspy, his breathing harsh, but he could not pull his arms back to help himself, let alone to prop his head up. He only partially felt the arm around his waist let go, a hand slip between his thighs to push them apart, a solid weight settle between his quivering legs, moving to rest on him and trap him on the bed. Everything he felt, or thought he felt, was numbed by shock, a shock that was pulling him within himself. He was only a bystander, trapped within and screaming for help, but his body was not his own anymore and did not respond. A searing ache overtook his lower back as he was finally breached, the nerves there yelping and screeching from overload, but it never reached him.

"Fuck…" Bushido grunted above him, his hot breath fanning across Bill's neck before he released his grip on Bill's hair to wrap his rough hands around his bony hips to pull him back harder, faster, to meet his own. The brunette was so tight, fit around him so snugly…

Bill felt like he was being ripped open. Jagged teeth of the open zipper scraped the backs of his long legs every time Bushido's hips met his own. "P…Ple…N-no…St…" Bill gasped raggedly, the words that were so articulate in his mind only translating to mumbles and gasps for breath between each agonized cry and groan. Each collision of their hips felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside out, over and over and over again. "S…Stop…N…" he whimpered near silently, the creaking of the bed sounding over him. His pleas trickled from his barely parted lips and seeped into the sheets he was being pounded into, never even reaching his own ears at above a whisper, let alone those of the panting man on top of him. Bushido only increased his pace, pushing into him brutally. The tears burning at the corners of his wide eyes shook free and rolled down his contused cheeks with each pounding thrust, each jerk of his hips.

He lay there motionlessly, pliant and obedient to every onslaught, unable to fight back, unable to even scream as he was torn apart mercilessly. Bill clutched the sheets in his mangled fingers and just waited for the end, hoping above all that it would come soon.

* * *

Once the lock had clicked once more, Bill dragged himself from the bed and crawled to the farthest corner of the room from the door. Every move he made resulted in a burning ache deep within him, like he was being torn apart all over again. His thighs slipped together, slick with his own blood and the semen that was slowly leaking out of him and down his legs – but Bill had no more tears left to spare, no more self-worth to care. His pants still hung around his knees, but his hands were shaking so badly he could not grip them well enough to pull them up again – he could not stand regardless. He collapsed in the corner of the room, unable to move any further.

Bill curled in on himself as much as he possibly could, his knees pressed into his chest and his arms wrapped around them trying to pull them in even closer. His hands shook wildly, rattling the cuffs he wore. Bill lay as still as possible in the corner, letting the shadows pull him in, making him unseen. No one could see him, no could see him at all – at least he told himself this. His eyes darted around the room frantically, expecting the man to materialize from the darkness and rip him from the floor.

But they were already moving again, he could feel the wheels rotating beneath the floor. Somewhere farther up in the RV classical music was switched on, the soft notes floating back to Bill's ears and curdling. No, he was not coming back. Yet.

Bill squeezed himself tighter and watched the shadows of the room, jumping at each flash of light, each subtle shift.

"Please God, save me…"

* * *

A/N: I keep forgetting to put my end-of-chapter questions in here for you guys, so this chapter I have two. Feel free to answer either one, or both (or none!). And feel free to direct any questions you have (or comments) at me too, I'll answer what I can. I'd just like to know what everyone is theorizing :)

1. What do _you_ think is going to happen to Bill?

2. How/where do you think Tom is going to make his grand entrance?

Chapter 9 coming soon to a fanfiction website near you! Thanks for reading!


	9. The Bewitching Hour

A/N: I got a few comments concerning the state of Bill's face and the damage done to it, and I would just like to justify my writing in that regard; although the concern that was conveyed to me was completely in the right, because there has never been a warning for disfigurement on this story (nor will there be, don't worry), and that part of the last chapter was mildly gory. There are a few reasons for the way it was written that may have come across as excessively gruesome. In particular, head wounds tend to be excessively gruesome in and of themselves, so there would have been a lot of blood and, in my opinion, having seen this, Bill would have likely overreacted to the situation at hand. I think anyone would have, actually. That, and I MAY have been a bit over-imaginative as well. Perhaps. Anyway, he is not disfigured at all and I hope I did not scare any of you away!

This particular chapter is dedicated to my dear banana friend who gave me the BEST birthday cake ever yesterday. I am so happy I could die.

All mistakes are my own on this one. Maybe after a couple hours of sleep I will come back and edit... (Oh, and sorry for the ridiculously long update period :D ...)

* * *

"_Please!" she cries shrilly, "Just not this." She is on her knees now, the children no longer at her side. She hugs herself tightly, creating a useless armor about her middle with her arms. "I-I thought you had changed…Bu," she sobs quietly, her head bowing lower, dark hair falling in ripples to curtain her face. _

_He stares at her for a moment, perturbed, from where he is kneeling on the floor. His head rolls forward and he starts to chuckle, softly at first, evolving into a deep guffaw that echoes off the beige walls. "You-? You thought that I had changed? And did you also think that it was a result of you?" Bushido stands, towering over her quivering form. She is pathetic, really. "I would really just love to see how _you_ changed _me_," he spits. He does not know what he ever saw in a woman like her, but is just glad that he has come to his senses now. She looks up at him with watery, blue eyes, snot running down her pale face, lips trembling madly. No, he does not know what he ever saw in her. _

"_Anything you want…" she chokes out between sobs. "I can do anything for you, anything at all, just don't do this – not to them." Her eyes are focused on the two boys standing at Bushido's sides, their hands slowly encircling his own as she says this. This only causes her to break down further. She retches on her own tears, clutching at her sides as if they are to split apart. "What did I ever do to deserve this? Why are you doing this to me? To us?" she shrieks. _

Bushido shook his head, trying to rid himself of her scathing, aggravating voice ringing relentlessly in his ears. His eyes fluttered open, focusing and then squinting against the sheer darkness of the wooded road. His hands tightened around the steering wheel of the RV, knuckles whitening, and he leaned forward in his seat. He was falling asleep again. Sleep always led him backwards, and back was not a place he could go. He screwed his eyes shut tight and quickly popped them open again, resting his chin on the top of the steering wheel.

Gargantuan firs filled the windows on either side of him, reaching fruitlessly for the lightless, hole of a sky and branching out for miles. In every direction was darkness seeping from between the branches and needles of the firs, even shining down on him from the sky. There were no lights. There were no stars, despite the extreme distance from any population remotely close to the size of a city. The only thing cutting through the perfect blackness encasing him was the beams of his headlights, reaching not much further than a few yards ahead of him. From the corners of his drooping eyes he could just make out the movements of animals to the side of the road, watching, waiting just as he was. They did not make towards the road, nor did they even step past the trench that divided the asphalt from the sheer wilderness at their backs; all simply tarried anxiously, on the edge of something. Their eyes flashed momentarily in his head beams and then disappeared into the distance.

A stifled yawn escaped his lips inadvertently as he leaned back once more in the pilot's chair of the RV. His back formed perfectly to the back of the leather seat, the wings on either side hugging his shoulders snuggly, pulling him in farther, deeper. Bushido reached over and turned the volume dial for the stereo, letting Tchaikovsky grow to the point of deafening in his ears as he watched the road fall endlessly beneath the high beams of the RV, winding sleepily through the wooded backcountry. He blinked once, twice, straining to keep his eyes open as every movement he made and sound he heard only lulled him more sweetly towards a fitful sleep. The yellow lines caught his fleeting attention, disappearing in uniformed suit beneath him, seemingly eaten by the rubber of the tires. Bushido counted them, grasping at reality with every last strand of consciousness he could muster.

One. His eyes drooped moderately, but he was holding strong.

Two. Hands slack at the wheel, Bushido leaned in closer to the windshield, blinking uncertainly as he attempted to keep count.

Three. The lines wiggled beneath his gaze, gaining a life of their own, shooting off in all directions on the road he was driving.

_Four. _

_Bushido returns from the bathroom with an old rag in his hands. The sound of running water finally ceases and the two children look up at him expectantly from where they sit, side by side, on the floor near the wall their mother had been backed against just moments before. Their brown eyes are alight now, like those of any contented child given what it has requested. They do not know what he has been doing for the past half hour, but each has a good idea and no questions are asked when their mother does not come out with him. Bushido glances at them momentarily, but his mind is elsewhere and he does not pay them any attention. _

_He is calm, collected, but he knows that something is wrong. Bushido knows he should not have gotten rid of her with the children around; they are a liability, one that he should not have created or can keep around. He takes three quick strides across the small room, swiping at the door jamb with the rag, rubbing fiercely at the walls as well. The boys just watch him patiently, silently. Wringing the rag in his immaculately clean hands, he looks at the boys again. The younger of the two smiles up at him brilliantly, the elder mimicking just the same, genuinely. Bushido grimaces and they simply giggle. _

_Returning to the back of the apartment, he covers his hand with the rag and turns off the lights and lamps, one at a time, slowly and contemplatively. Everything goes dark, one room at a time, and the final light remains on in the front entry where the boys are sitting. Bushido reappears from the dense shadows, gliding through the room. He opens the door and then slips the faded rag into the pocket of his jeans. He takes a step backwards until he is standing before the children and kneels so that he is at their level. Reaching out with both hands, he allows them to each slip one of their own into his massive paws, their hands quickly disappearing as he grips them tightly. _

"_Come," he tells the pair, all of them standing together. _

_The eldest of the two boys looks up at Bushido. He opens his mouth to speak, but it isn't words that come spilling out. _HOOOONNK!

_Bushido's brow furrows in confusion. He drops the hand of the younger boy. "What was that?"He gets back down on one knee before the boy, resting his large hand on one of his thin shoulders. _

_His son's mouth simply hangs there, wide open, the same "_HOOOONNK_" blaring loudly from between his lips, growing exceptionally louder with each bout. He whips his head around, looking to the other, but he is in the same slack-jawed state, the sound of a horn pealing heavily from his mouth. _HOOOOOONNNK!

HOOOOOOOONNNNK!

Bushido jolted in his seat, immediately becoming blinded by terrifyingly white lights streaming relentlessly into his eyes. Raising his hand to impart a feeble amount of shielding for his eyes, he watched the beams become narrower and narrower, until it dawned on him that he was facing a semi-truck that easily pushed the barrier of forty tons in comparison to his much smaller RV. Reality seemed to click together, and Bushido wrenched the steering wheel to the right as the opposite driver laid heavily on his horn. HOOOOOOOONNNNNK! The horn boomed over the dark, distorted cello chord snaking through the speakers imbedded in the dashboard at a tremendous volume. The RV veered off into the right lane, the tires squealing and grasping for traction on the old, cracked backcountry road. Maps that had been laid across the passenger seat jostled as the whole vehicle began to rattle, the right tires jumping off the road onto the shallow, rocky shoulder while Bushido tried to regain some semblance of control.

The hulking semi roared past, not slowing in the slightest. The driver held onto the horn, and Bushido could hear it still in the distance as the truck disappeared in his sideview mirror. Pulling the wheel left, he lugged the RV back onto the road with a jolt; the RV jounced for but a moment, and then all noise above each jabbing note of a violin, still accompanied by the same cello, ceased abruptly.

Each beat of his heart against his ribcage sent blood galloping past his eardrums and adrenaline rushing through every cell; but you would not have known it by looking at him. Bushido swiftly knocked the volume dial of the stereo down and the music died, the cabin succumbing to silence. With the calm and sheer lack of concern of someone who had just spent the past nine hours sitting at a desk, he rested his foot against the brake pedal and the RV once again rolled off onto the shoulder of the road, but this time lazily, painlessly. The tires stopped their endless rotating and the gravel ceased to crunch as the vehicle came to rest; but Bushido did not take his hands from the steering wheel. His gaze lingered beyond the windshield, farther down the road ahead than one could possibly see.

"Mother fuck," he breathed, barely hearing himself above the ringing in his ears. White splotches littered his vision from the blaze of the semi's headlights, dancing uniformly before his brown eyes. The pounding of his heart slowed, and he listened for any sound coming from the backroom of the RV, but there was nothing. The lack of reaction nagged at the forefront of his mind, but he brushed it nonchalantly to the side, not caring enough to stand and go check what he was doing – or not. Bushido took a quick breath, filling his lungs and holding it. He glanced briefly at each of the mirrors, but there was nothing to see beyond the now empty road. Letting the air from within his chest whistle out between his teeth, Bushido heaved the beast of an RV back onto the road with a mechanical groan from deep within its winding heart.

It was not long before yet another light appeared ahead; this one, however, remained stagnant and did not gain any ground towards him, but rather he towards it. There were no signs on the side of the road nor near the glowing area ahead to indicate what it was – an eatery, a gas station, a rest stop – but Bushido slowed as he neared regardless. Whatever it was, even if it was simply a farm house, would have something to entertain him at least momentarily and get his mind running once more, for the endless driving had done nothing but slow him; it was not a feeling he enjoyed, the sluggishness or the lack of reactionary impulse. The trees parted before long, and Bushido was not disappointed.

A small, family-owned gas station stood solitary in a rough circle of towering trees, its lights glowing soberly, staining the black top it was atop a dark, filthy brown. The name "Carter's" glowed hopelessly on the side of the rectangular overhang; the single "A" blinked drearily on and off, on and off. Beyond the measly four pump stations, stood a small convenience store, its windows wallpapered in adverts and signs flashing a variety of beer logos. Spaces between the advertisements gave way to shelves upon shelves of shit that no one would ever eat, save for during a road trip. Bushido grimaced, but his stomach growled, so he pulled up next to the farthest pump and pulled the keys from the ignition.

Bushido sat listening to the ticking engine cool, his eyes gliding over the small lot. Two stations away was an old station wagon, the beige paint slowly chipping away along the outer edges of the wheel wells. Parked in front of the convenience store sat a Firebird that was even older, but holding up much better. It's silver paint shimmered dully under the yellow light of the overhang, its windshield reflecting the inside of the little store; and not much further beyond the Firebird was a brand-spanking new Honda of some indistinct model, resting along the very outskirts of the black top, its windows glistening with frost. There were no people out there, though; no one at the pumps, no one sitting in an idling car. Bushido popped open the door of the RV and stepped out.

* * *

Redbull, three different flavors of Amp'd, five different flavors of Rockstar, Nos, two different types of Full Throttle, six other drinks he had never even heard of before - but NO Monster. Not even one.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Tom grabbed one of the Rockstars and let the cooler door fall shut. Even though he did not believe it to be particularly difficult to keep even a small store in the boondocks stocked with common necessities, he was mildly surprised at the selection the store did manage to have; and he was too tired to be picky. (Awkward sentence) Tom rolled the cold can between his palms, walking through an aisle of vibrant, multicolored chip bags and packages of cookies. His stomach growled angrily and he stopped to glance at a cooler along the wall stocked with saran-wrapped deli sandwiches; but having driven for days had made him wary of "fresh" gas station food, so he shifted his gaze to the rows of chips, candies and cookies surrounding him.

The bell over the door of the convenience store chimed, a crisp breeze cutting through the stench of stale tobacco and then disappearing as soon as it had arrived. Over the tops of bags of Doritos and Sun Chips, Tom watched noncommittally as a man walked through the glass door, seemingly gliding given the way he carried himself. The elderly woman browsing the rack of magazines glanced up from the knitting pattern in her hands to watch this new person come in as well, but deemed him just as uninteresting as Tom had because she quickly reverted back to what she was reading.

Unshaven, tall – but not astonishingly so – thick, but not fat; muscular, but no body builder, tan skin, closely cropped dark hair, black leather jacket and jeans. Tom noted all of these things as the man walked past him to the furthest aisle in the little convenience store, a sickeningly sweet tang of perspiration clinging to his skin despite the cool weather. He did not even spare Tom a glance, nor anyone for that matter, but Tom still felt as though he had already been thoroughly observed and tagged. A light shudder ran up the length of his spine and he felt himself squeeze the roll of cookies in his hand apprehensively. Casting his eyes back downwards, Tom dropped the crumpled package back amongst its brethren on the shelf and meandered through the aisles until he too was in the back of the store.

Neither man said anything, Tom browsing the dusty, forgotten packages of lighters and other convenient items while the other man, seeming to have a purpose, grabbed batteries, a flashlight and a roll of Tums, among other things. Tom stole occasional, curious glances at the man, if only for something to do as he carelessly threw away precious minutes he could have spent driving. He noticed that the dark stranger did not touch anything that he did not pick up to buy, not even to shift items to the side or look to see if certain things came in other styles. Maybe it was just him, but Tom thought this strange, even if only a little bit. It was not long before the other man worked his way through the aisle and moved onto another, while Tom continued to fiddle with the plastic lighters.

His head shot up, though, when a deep, bodily thudding sounded from a trailer parked at one of the pump stations outside. All eyes immediately turned towards the windows and then towards the man in the leather jacket. He continued his shopping unfazed, completely oblivious to or utterly ignoring the banging coming from inside what they knew to be his RV.

The banging continued, the RV swaying slightly on its wheels with the force of whatever was running itself into the RV's aluminum walls, but the man did not flinch nor did he leave the store. After what seemed like minutes of incessant noise, the owner of the RV finally looked up from where he was rifling through all of the items in his arms and attempted to chuckle in a disregarding manner. The cashier behind the counter smacked his chewing gum and tried to look busy, while the old woman and Tom took turns staring curiously at the swaying RV and its clearly uncomfortable owner.

Clearing his throat in evident discomfort, the man conveyed to them that his elderly, sickly mother was travelling with him through the mountains as a last hurrah before what they knew to be her final days. He stared for a moment out the window at his RV. "She is clearly impatient," he added quickly, chuckling halfheartedly before he cast his eyes downward and grabbed a few bags of jerky from the shelf in front of him.

A heavy silence, broken only by the now weaker thudding against the RV's walls, fell upon the gas station. The old woman near the magazine rack seemed complacent enough, returning quickly to the magazine in her withered hands. The cashier behind the counter warily occupied himself with something other than staring at this particularly disconcerting customer, while Tom was unable to take his eyes from him. For the first time, the man directed his own unsettling gaze upon Tom, as if daring him to challenge anything that he had just said. His dark brown eyes burned directly into Tom's own. Tom quickly broke eye contact with the man, and only then did he appear to return to his browsing. Although he knew it was not the best of ideas, Tom could not help but keep glancing at the man now and again. He watched as the stranger went to the counter and dropped all of his goods atop the plastic countertop, stopping only briefly to tell the cashier gruffly that he was not done shopping. All the moves this man made struck Tom as suspicious, and if the shifty glances of the cashier were anything to go by, he was not alone in his suspicion.

Back in the snack aisle, the man stretched his arms high above his head and yawned, his leather jacket riding up his torso. It was at that exact moment that Tom casually glanced over once more, just barely catching the harsh glint of intricately carved steel. The man's jacket covered the metal object just as quickly as it had exposed it, however Tom's eyes were already wide in bewilderment and he had unknowingly stopped all movement. His eyes immediately turned to the cashier, who, by the look of alarm on his face, had seen the same thing, only confirming Tom's fear.

The man had a gun.

Ever so slowly and with great effort to appear nonchalant, the cashier and Tom both began to move, Tom away from the stranger and towards the door, the cashier for the rifle mounted beneath the counter. As Tom made his way towards the door, his open jacket brushed up against a bag of Fritos lazily leaning away from the shelf, knocking it to the floor before he had a chance to realize they were falling.

It was at that moment that time seemed to stop. Everyone ceased what they were doing, except for the elderly woman, who remained completely oblivious to the tension that was building between the three men within the tiny gas station store. A dark purple roll of candies slid through the stranger's fingers as his eyes drifted to where the cashier was standing behind the counter, whose hands were quite obviously fumbling with something just out of view.

In the blink of an eye, the gum fell from the cashier's hanging jaw, a single ribbon of red weaving down his chin from the corner of his mouth, a harsh pop sounding as a slug embedded itself in the wall. A metallic clatter sounded from behind the counter as the rifle that the cashier had been trying so inconspicuously to dislodge fell to the tile floor. Tom was frozen in place. He watched as the cashier looked at the gaping, fleshy crater in the center of his stomach in disbelief, the full weight of the situation not having come down upon him yet. He seemed to try to speak, but the words were garbled and wet as blood bubbled from his lips, spilling down his chin. His knees buckled and he fell, his chin smashing into the countertop with a loud crack before he crumpled to the floor.

The moment that the cashier hit the ground, Tom felt himself hurtling towards where the man in the leather jacket was standing with a smoking revolver in his outstretched hand. Upon impact, Tom felt the recoil from the revolver in the man's hand as it discharged once more, this time in the direction of the elderly woman who was hobbling desperately towards the door. She did not even have the chance to scream as the shot went straight through her fragile, aged body, shattering the glass of the door. The bullet was closely followed by the old woman herself as she fell through the door, hanging limply over the metal beam that cut across the two glass panels. Warm blood plopped softly onto the tile inside the door and the cold cement just outside; it stained the lower glass panel of the door that remained intact as thick red streams slowly began to flow from her hanging body. The little bells at the top of the door chimed when her weight pressed the remains of the door outwards although they rung unheard as Tom wrestled the man with the gun to the floor.

Tom's fists flew in desperation to save his own life, which he saw fleeting before his very eyes. His knuckles cracked as they connected with the bulkier man's left cheek bone and then his ear. Tom angled himself so he was sitting on top of the man's chest, his knee pinning the wrist of the tattooed hand that held the gleaming black revolver. Blood from the other man's mouth sprayed across his hands while his fists slammed into the man's face over and over again. Tom was becoming breathless during what seemed to be years instead of mere seconds; adrenaline surged through his veins and pulsed in his head so that he could not hear anything else but his own labored breathing and rampant heartbeat.

Suddenly, Tom felt a knee collide into his back, the force propelling him forward. Tom felt the weight he had on the man's wrist shift, sliding off as his body leaned forward. His fists froze in midair as soon as he realized that the man now had free control of the gun. Tom dove to the side for the revolver, but it was a second too late and he felt the side of the revolver slam into his head, the elaborate metal engravings and outcroppings digging into his temple with a sharp ferocity.

World spinning ever so slightly, Tom observed as the stranger's eyes came closer to his own. He tried to stop himself from falling forward, but then he realized that he wasn't moving just moments before a thick forehead smashed into his nose, pushing him into a straight sitting position. Tom grunted in pain, swaying for a moment, but not for long as the man beneath him threw him to the floor and jumped to his feet with an energy that Tom would not have thought he still had. Tom blinked up uncertainly at the stranger who was pointing the dark barrel of the revolver at his head. He heard the ominous tick of the hammer echoing off the walls of the store as the revolver was cocked. Disoriented, he threw his leg out in a last ditch effort to take down the other man, succeeding in only making contact with blue jean-clad shins, not even making the man lose his balance. Above him he heard a forced, airy chuckle aimed at his embarrassingly fruitless effort to save his own life.

Yet the hammer of the gun was moved back to its original position in a few sweet sounding ticks, for god only knew what reason. Tom was unsure whether or not he should have felt relief or greater fear; before he had the chance to decide, however, a steel-toed boot connected with the soft flesh of his temple and all of the lights blew out.

* * *

Bushido rubbed at his swollen, oozing lips fiercely. Placing the Taurus back in his belt after a quick shining on his thigh, he immediately turned towards the security camera that he had spotted upon entering the convenience store. The minute plastic bulb on the corner of the camera was a dull brown in color and not a single wire ran down the wall away from the small box. The camera was a fake, as he had already suspected, but just in order to be sure, Bushido strolled over to the check-out counter and hopped atop it. Careful not to lose his balance, he ripped the camera from the wall, not at all surprised when it was only accompanied by particles of plaster. Wiping his prints from it thoroughly on his jeans, he threw it down atop the crumpled body of the cashier and hopped down from the counter.

Before he walked away, Bushido snatched a plastic bag from the small rack of them behind the counter, briefly eyeing the rifle as he did so. Uninterested by the cheaply made model, he swiped all of his goodies from the counter where he had placed them and wandered back through the small shop to pick up anything else he had neglected on his first trip around. He completely ignored the unconscious body of the boy in the middle of the store.

Finally, minutes later, the lights fizzled out in the store and the whirring of the cooling cases along the walls died away. Real silence, something the gas station had not experienced in many years since its opening, overtook the convenience store and swallowed all of its contents. With a loud click, the bright lights of the pump station over hang turned off and that whole side of the road was bathed in darkness, just like the wilderness that surrounded the secluded gas station for miles. The few bugs buzzing around the light fixtures quickly lost interest in the gas station and bumbled away. For the first time in more than half an hour, Bushido could hear the sounds of nature around him.

Guided by a dim pool of moonlight, Bushido stood over the still motionless body of the peculiar corn-rowed boy. In any other situation, Bushido may not have found him as peculiar, but in that particular moment, or moments rather, he did. For what appeared to have been no reason, the boy had fought him, despite the fact that he held a gun and the boy had been close to the door.

He smiled to himself momentarily; he pondered upon the situation he had put himself into by not simply killing him along with the others, one very similar to a situation he had encountered but a few hours before.

It did not take him long to make up his mind. Bushido squatted down next to the boy and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, yanking him up into a sitting position. The boy did not even stir as he wrapped one of his arms around his slim waist and hoisted him up onto his shoulder, not forgetting to grab his shopping bag before he kicked the front door open with his boot, the old lady's feet dragging along the cement as the door swung open. He was careful not to step in the pool of blood that she had left. Strolling easily across the blacktop despite the utter darkness, he opened the side door of the RV and mounted the stairs. Rope was easily accessible to him, so he dropped the boy to the floor in the narrow hallway before the back bedroom and bound his wrists tightly, then tying that to his torso. Bushido hummed a dramatic tune, something of Tchaikovsky's, he believed. It perked him up as he hoisted the newly bound and gagged boy onto his shoulder, using an array of keys and flipping various latches to open the locks on the back door of the RV.

Inside the room it was darker than it had been in the front part of the RV, but he could still see the cowering outline of his little friend from earlier. Bushido did not bother to lock the doors again when he walked into the room, but simply dropped the new addition onto the mattress that had been previously occupied by the now trembling mass in the furthest corner of the room. The springs in the mattress screeched under the new strain, but quickly quieted as soon as the body stopped its bouncing. Other than the occasional sharp intake of breath from the other boy or a light jangle of his cuffs, the room was as silent as the store had been, and Bushido took it in with pleasure.

That pleasure was short lived though, as he finally moved to leave the room and continue the drive. He caught sight of the slighter boy trembling in the corner of the room once more and paused. Bill, if he was not mistaken. He thrust his hand into his pocket and watched as Bill's eyes screwed shut and he drew in tighter upon himself. Bushido pulled out a cellophane-wrapped stick of beef jerky and whipped it across the room at the quivering mess of a boy.

"Have fun," he grunted, lumbering out of the room, the bolts and latches on the other side of the door turning and catching fast after him.

The engine of the RV roared on shortly thereafter and they pulled back onto the road once more.

* * *

A/N: Yay, Tom...?

Questions/comments/concerns are more than welcome, lovelies :D


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